


Fading Like a Flower

by ferowyn



Series: Hobbit Kink [20]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Bilbofur - Freeform, Boffins - Freeform, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His gold sickness convinced Thorin that Bilbo, although the hobbit is with Bofur, is his One so he seeks out the hobbit to tell him. Bilbo tries to politely refuse but Thorin keeps pressing [...] and after the Arkenstone Bilbo's banished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every time I see you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=8701717#t12221973
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes, English is not my mother tongue

### 1\. Every time I see you

Bofur looks into the mirror and thinks that, no matter how much his kin would always deny it, dwarves and elves are not all that different. Of course, at first glance, no one would talk about similarities. The elves, with their tall, slim, elegant forms and their wise, smooth faces could not be any more unlike the dwarves in their appearance, the latter being short and stout, their faces wrinkled and hidden behind bushy beards. Also the behaviour of the two races differs greatly, with the firstborns being quiet and reserved, while Mahal’s children are known for loud, obtrusive (and not really present) manners. However, there is one thing they have in common, one thing they share: Both dwarves and elves have only one partner in their lives, and they love with all their heart and soul. Their One rejecting them… leaves them fading.

Bofur sighs and tears his gaze away from the mirror, no longer able to bear the sight of his own reflection. Seeing himself like that makes it even more real, and it is already real enough. Painful enough. Besides, he does not have to look at his body to know what is happening to it. He had learned about it like every other dwarfling when he had been young, and it is something he has never forgotten. None of them ever forget, and it is their greatest fear, for fierce and courageous they may be, born to fight, but a broken heart is nothing that can be mended, not by anyone but the person who broke it.

Thus there is no way out for him, now that Bilbo is gone. He has left for his Shire, and he is not going to come back. Bofur will be alone, for the rest of his life, and the only real comfort he can find in this situation is that said rest will not be long. He does feel bad when he thinks that, for he knows what his fading will mean to Bombur and Bifur, and maybe he could fight it, but he does not have the strength to do so. No power in Middle Earth is great enough to stop the weakness that is running through his veins, or the demons that let it. The demons that have taken his soul captured and are whispering sweet words of _letting go_ and _forgetting_. At least he can take pride in saying that, up to now, he has managed to keep his condition a secret. There is nothing his family could ever have done to deserve seeing him die away like he knows he is going to, and he wishes he could save them the pain. He has seen his own mother fade and never forgotten the pallor of her skin or the deep shadows underneath her hollowed eyes. The way she had clung to him, her fingers wispy and bony and her skin so pale that it had seemed to be translucent – those images had stayed with him, haunting him in his dreams, and they would still be – if he were dreaming these days. He remembers how her skin had been too big for her body, with all the fat gone, and how it had seemed as if a breeze could have blown her over. And, most clearly, as if it had been only yesterday, he remembers his own helplessness. There had been nothing he could have done, and it had left him broken. There is a reason dwarves hide their fading from the world (as the elves do), not wishing for anyone to witness that. It had been Bofur’s only comfort that he had managed to keep his brother away and safe, and he deeply regrets that he will not be able to do so this time. Not when he himself is the one fading, wilting like a flower that has gone too long without water. Because Bilbo is his water.

He wishes he could stop it. He really does.

Bofur had always been a cheerful dwarf, and in love with life. But that is all gone now… now, that he is alone. He knows, he only has to turn around and his family will always be there, but they cannot fill the emptiness that has become such a big part of his life. It had started in his heart, the second he had heard that Bilbo had left – left without saying goodbye, without giving him the chance to say or do something, _anything_ – and it has been spreading further every day, every minute, every second since then. Whenever he thinks about the hobbit who has taken his heart, so swiftly and quietly without him really noticing before it had been too late, and who had left it broken, scattering the pieces along the way back to his Shire… whenever he thinks about him the emptiness spreads a little faster and a little further and he is thinking about Bilbo all the time. He knows that this emptiness is dangerous and that it is what will be killing him in the end, but he cannot bring himself to mind. After all it eases the throbbing, agonizing ache in his heart and soul, if only just a little, to a dull pain.

He thinks of that word – _dangerous_ – and laughs. It is a mocking and bitter and desperate noise, not happy at all. How long has it been since he had last laughed really, honestly? He wishes he could say he does not even remember that, but he does, and it hurts. For Bilbo’s laughter is ringing in his ears along with his own, bright and happy, and he can see the pale green eyes sparkling and the cheeks blushing in that beautiful shade and there is a smaller shoulder touching his own, leaning against him, shaking with happiness and- … it hurts.

The emptiness is what is going to be his death. But it is also what is going to stop the pain.

He has already stopped sleeping. Bofur remembers the five steps of the fading process as well as any other dwarf (and elf, for that matter), and it is only too easy to see them in himself. Everything begins with _the dreaming_. It is the first sign of fading and very tricky, for others cannot know whether the broken hearted has stopped dreaming or not. Bofur has not forgotten the night after Bilbo’s leaving, and he had been painfully aware of the absence of any dreams. _Here it goes_ , he had thought, knowing that there was no going back. Not without the hobbit. Not with the chill in his bones that always comes with that first step. And he also remembers being ridiculously relieved, for _the dreaming_ is easy to keep secret.

As is the second step, which is _the sleeping_.

Bofur is actually doing fairly well, after all it has been more than two months and it is only sleep that is eluding him, not speech. Not yet. He tries to imagine no longer being able to raise his voice, to only whisper, but he knows that when it comes to that he will not want to talk anyway. Everyone will know then, but Bofur will try his best to keep his condition secret until he is no longer able to. He wants to spare his family and friends the pain and two out of five steps hidden would be rather successful. However, he would not manage to get any farther. Dwarves stopping to talk… the sign is too clear, and everyone will recognize it as what it is. _The speaking_ is the third step, and _the eating_ the fourth. He remembers it as being worst. It is why the process is actually called fading, and seeing his mother wilt had shown him that the name is gruesomely well chosen. Mahal’s children can go quite some time without food as long as they have water. _The eating_ is what he fears most, though not for his own sake, but his family’s. Only too well does he remember the lethargy his mother had been in, and the way anything would make her state worse. She had been out of her mind and nobody would have been able to bring her back then.

The last – and ultimate – step is _the breathing_. All of the other steps can be reversed more or less well, depending on the dwarf’s condition. If their beloved should retake their rejection they may be able to recover. The further the process has gone, the harder recovery is and those who have reached the fourth step are highly unlikely to be able to go back. However, it is possible; at least in theory. Not so with step five. It will start with the broken hearted stopping breathing, and end with their heart slowing to a stop. That takes nothing more than a few minutes, and Bofur remembers it as being a relief, for both his mother and him. He had seen the sudden clarity in her former bleary, unfocusing eyes and he remembers the way he had felt free afterwards. Her suffering was finally over. He had told his brother, then, and young Bombur had wept bitterly, desperate, but Bofur’s eyes had remained dry. He had lost his mother somewhere along the way, during the fading, and this had not been the end. Only the final confirmation.

Bofur sighs and reaches for his hat, rearranging it for a few times. Wearing it almost hurts now, for the image of dirty blond curls underneath it instead of his own dark braids is bright and clear and painful, but it is the only way he can hide the dark circles underneath his eyes.

 _The dreaming_ – it had been a relief. He had always dreamt about what troubled him most, and he knew that Bilbo being there during his nights and gone in the day… it would have been torture. However, _the sleeping_ is _not_ a relief. He has lost those moments in which he had been able to forget, and his body is aching, tired. He is growing weaker already, too fast, but feeling too empty to really care. He knows that he has been holding on pretty good so far, but he cannot help but wish for _the breathing_ already. Everything will be fine then. Easy.

He turns his head and makes sure that the slim shadow of the brim of his hat hides the circles underneath his eyes, making them stick out much less. _Why me? Why Bilbo? What did I do wrong?_ These questions have been tormenting him all the time, since the hobbit’s leaving, and Bofur knows that they will only become more and painful with the progressing of the fading process. He had done everything to make Bilbo happy, and still it had not been enough. He knows he can blame no one but himself, and that is what makes him fade away. That knowledge – that he should have done more, something else, something different, _something_ – is what fuels the demons. The demons which are telling him that he is not good enough, not for his beloved, but that the pain will stop. Soon. He really tries not to think about it, but there is no way to banish these thoughts. It is how they – the dwarves, and the elves – are born: Ready to give their everything, their heart and soul, to the one they inevitably and unchangeably fall for, and if it is not enough they blame themselves. As with any other race there is no choosing who you fall for, but more often than not fate is generous and does not let love go unrequited, though of course everyone being happy is impossible. However, quite a few dwarves (and elves) never tell their chosen about their heart’s decision and although knowing they would most likely be rejected, there is still a tiny little bit of hope left. Hope that keeps them alive. (A desperate hope that Bofur sees in Balin’s eyes every time the elderly counsellor looks at Thorin. A desperate hope Dori is clinging to, although Bofur does not know who the reason for it is. A desperate hope that has Fili and Kili dancing around each other but never saying anything.) Because everything is better than knowing. Rejection… that is every dwarf’s and elf’s worst nightmare. That is what leaves them fading. They can survive partners falling, or dying with old age or illnesses, for there is always the promise of meeting again, in the halls of waiting, and being together there. However, for those rejected there is no one waiting, and they will never reach the halls. After the fading process nothing of them will be left in this world, or in any other.

He remembers how much that thought had hurt him, back then when his mother had died away. Back then, when he had still thought he would go to the halls of waiting one day, and that she would not be there. Now he is relieved.

Bofur sighs and lets his head fall against the wall. He avoids thinking about his mother’s fading as much as possible (it is easy for him to remember her as the happy, loud dwarf she had been before falling victim to the emptiness in her heart and soul) for the images of her broken body are inevitably followed by images of another broken soul. He sees his father, clearly as if it had been only yesterday, and he sees the anger in his too dark eyes, and the dangerous line of his set jaw, and he remembers being _afraid_. His father had been taken away by orcs and not in his worst nightmares could he ever imagine what they did to him. They had broken not only his body but also his spirit and soul and when they had set him free he had been somebody else. Different. His parents had shared a generous, deep love, but the dwarf who had returned to their family… had no longer been his father. And there had been no place for his mother left in his heart. It had been the trigger for her fading.

Bofur and Bombur had not only lost their father that night, when the orcs had taken him, during a surprising (and devastating) ambush, but also their mother. Watching her die away had been even worse than watching him leave.

Bofur knows that his father is probably dead by now, fallen as a hero, in a fight. He had been driven by only one thought when he had come back – revenge – and he had been a warrior every day since.

The dwarf looks at the mattock standing in the corner of the room. He had been a warrior, too, after leaving for this crazy quest. He, who is respected and celebrated now, as a member of Thorin Oakenshield’s company, wishes he had not gone. He would have never met Bilbo, then, and although he would have missed all those happy moments dearly – they cannot measure up for the pain he has to live with now.

He knows, he should leave his rooms and join the rest of his company for dinner. They have not stopped eating together, not being able to go separate ways after being so close. The others will be expecting him, but he is not hungry and his feet seem to be too heavy to make them move. Thus he simply lets his body collapse until he is nothing but a heap on the floor, and curls himself up, into a position that is seen rather rarely when it comes to dwarves. He will be strong – or at least pretend to be – again tomorrow. Tonight, however, he will grant his weary mind and haggard body some rest. He feels the memory tug at the edges of his consciousness and he closes his eyes, letting himself be carried away.

_Bilbo is chuckling quietly, that sweet, little sound Bofur loves so much, and poking his finger into the dwarf’s chest. “Do that again,” he says and Bofur lets his face crumble into the strange grimace once more. It has Bilbo laughing louder, and cuddling into him, and the dwarf, wrapping his arms around the younger one, knows that he will probably be grimacing like this until the end of his life, but if it draws those adorable sounds from his hobbit – who would he be to complain?_

_Bilbo buries his face in the crook of Bofur’s neck and the dwarf tightens his grip, holding the younger one close. The hobbit chuckles again. Bofur feels his muscles turn to steel, his grip like a stone giant’s. This is not a matter of exaggerated possessiveness. This… this is not only having found his One, but also being with them and knowing that he is never going to let his hobbit go. He thinks about his beloved’s gleaming eyes, and the blush colouring the (no longer chubby) cheeks a dark red that had spread to the tips of the pointed ears when Bilbo had asked him to leave the camp for a_ private conversation. _He had kissed him then, hidden from the others, instead of saying anything, and looked away, but Bofur had not hesitated one second to pull him as close as possible and to kiss him properly. This is what had gotten them where they are now, lying on the dirty but soft floor between the trees, cuddling, and enjoying the moment. (Because they will have to talk about their relationship, and they should go to sleep soon, and they will have to carry on with the quest tomorrow, and it is tiring, and exhausting, but right in this moment? Everything is fine.)_

_Everything is perfect._

He should have known then, already.

After all, why else would Bilbo have wanted to keep them a secret, as he had stated when they had finally talked about it? Why else hide their love from the other dwarves? Mahal’s children are possessive creatures, and when they have found their One they tend to tell everyone who wants to know (and also those who do not) about them, making sure the whole world knows that their beloved is _theirs_ , and theirs only. Huffing Bofur shakes his head. He had it believed to be different for hobbits. That they were loving in private, letting no one know about their relationships. _Well_ , he cannot avoid thinking, _maybe they are. And maybe they are having trysts and affairs all the time, but nobody knows, since everything is done in secrecy_. He shakes his head again. Bilbo is not like that. Probably… he had just not known what lying with Bofur would mean for the dwarf, and what leaving afterwards would lead to.

He wishes he could fall asleep, there, on the floor, forgetting instead of shaking with the force that holding back all those unshed tears requires, and letting those sweet hours of not-thinking make him feel light and detached instead of letting the emptiness that seems to be creeping into his spine, leaving his legs and feet numb, spread further and further. He knows that he will be ‘fine’ in the morning, but at the moment he feels so heavy that he might break through the floor any second. Would it matter if he simply never rose again? He would not have to wait for _the breathing_ , he could just stop eating this very second and wait until the weakness finally takes him away. He could…

… be strong. He has to be. For Bombur, and Bifur.

It takes every ounce of strength he has left, but he sits and then struggles to his feet, exhausting as it might be, staggering to his bed. Of course he will find no sleep, but he will not be lying on the floor, giving up after only two steps. He will stay in this world as long as possible, if only to give his family a little more happy time. _And maybe…_ , he thinks, _maybe I will have a chance to see Bilbo again before I go. And if it is nothing more than a glimpse._


	2. Oh I try to hide away

### 2\. Oh I try to hide away

Bofur is smiling.

Although he does not often feel like it he has not forgotten how to do that, but remembering seems to be getting harder with every passing day. By now a little more than four months have passed since Bilbo’s departure (Bofur is counting the days) and he has gotten used to not being able to sleep and to give everyone a forced (but well enough counterfeited) smile. That is not too hard to live with. However, something else is. He had gotten up today, looked in the mirror and found himself unable to wish his reflexion a good morning. He had done so for the past few weeks, practising his smile and trying to sound convincing as well as making sure that his voice is still there, maybe not as cheerful as he would like it to be, but good enough. Today… today it had been different. The chill in his bones had frozen him when nothing more than a whisper had left his lips, instead of the (forced) merry shout he had expected.

_It has already been overdue_ , he thinks, darkly. _Only very few dwarves have just reached step three after more than four months. Mother was already lying dead at that time._ He is torn between being relieved that he is hanging on so strongly – this is what he wants for his family, as he tries to remind himself – and being frustrated. There is nothing left for him in this world, not with Bilbo gone, so why linger? Why endure that pain that is eating him up, leaving him hollow and empty, longer than necessary? Everything is lost anyway, so why-

_No._

Bofur squares his shoulders. He cannot lose himself in those dark thoughts, not today. Not when _the speaking_ has finally overcome him and his friends, his _family_ , are bound to find out. He has to try and be strong, for his brother and cousin. The dwarf stares at his reflexion – he has not turned away from the mirror for more than half an hour now, not since finding out – and forces the corners of his lips upwards. By habit he opens his mouth to say something, but snaps it close a second later. Great. Now he has to put that smile on again.

It takes him five more minutes to adjust the smile and the hat – the circles underneath his eyes are rather alarming by now, and all strength seems to be seeping out of muscles, _the sleeping_ taking its toll, but he is still standing upright (it is really amazing how much the body of a dwarf can take) – and then he leaves for breakfast. Everyone will waiting for him by now, he is terribly late (and he has been so a little too often during the last weeks), thus he hurries towards the royal quarters. The company is usually eating in a small but comfortable room next to Thorin’s premises, along with the sister of the King and Gloin’s wife and son, as well as Bombur’s wife. Quickly he slips into the room, smiling apologetically and sliding into his chair between his brother and Balin. Thorin, clearly impatient, clears his throat and starts eating, thus allowing everybody else to do so as well. The two princes, who had already been complaining loudly, are digging into the food immediately (and rather unceremonially), which earns them a scolding from their mother. Bofur’s smile is honest now, at least partly, but he is rather reluctant to load his plate himself. This may not be _the eating_ , not yet, but he is not exactly hungry. Not after finding out what he did in front of the mirror.

Balin’s eyebrow is raised, concern showing in his eyes. “Are you okay, laddie?”

Bofur – of course – only nods, forcing himself to grin. It has been a long time since he has been called _laddie_ by anyone but Balin, who seems to be addressing everyone except his own brother like that, even the King. However, what really gets to him is the fact that he himself had used to call Bilbo ‘lad’ (among other names) and, under the heaviness of the memory, he feels the emptiness spread a little further still.

Balin does not really seem to be convinced but turns his attention back to his breakfast anyway, shooting the King a fleeting glance in the process, and Bofur exhales slowly. How long will he be able to continue like this? To hide the absence of his voice? He makes himself eat something, not really realizing what it tastes like, and answers a few of his brother’s questions by nodding or shaking his head. He has been talking uncharacteristically little in the last few weeks, maybe no one will notice… at least not today? Maybe he can keep his fading secret just a little longer, for the sake of his family? He will volunteer to help with the clearing work in the mines as he often does, it is usually rather loud there (they have already restarted mining and forging where it is possible) and no one will want to have a conversation.

His plan actually works and nobody starts to ask questions during the day, however, he does have no excuse for staying quiet during dinner. Fortunately some of the others have already left – only Ori, Dwalin, Balin, Thorin, Oin, Bifur and Bombur remaining – but there is no way of keeping his condition from those present. He knows that his secret will not be secret for much longer when he hears Ori call his name, across the whole table.

“Master Bofur!”

He looks up, makes himself smile and stares at the young dwarf expectantly. Maybe…

“You know, that book that you mentioned to me last time – what was it called again?”

Crab. For a moment he considers acting like he has forgotten the name (although he will never forget it, for it is a book that Bilbo has told him everything about, since it seems to contain some of the hobbit’s favourite legends and fairy-tales) but scraps the idea. Still he hesitates for a few seconds but then decides to simply get it over with. The others will find out anyway. Moreover, he has discussed some of the stories in the book with Ori (yes, he has actually found the book in Erebor’s vast library and read it, although it has taken him some time) and mentioned the title repeatedly, claiming to have forgotten it would be rather suspicious. Once again he forces his lips into something that he hopes resembles a smile and opens his mouth. “The Book of Lost Tales.” His voice is nothing more than a whisper and Ori shakes his head, cocks its.

“Could you repeat that, please?” It is loud in the room, the rest of the company talking and cheering and still throwing food at each other, as usual. Nobody is paying attention to the fact that the young scribe cannot hear the answer – well, almost nobody. From his place next to Ori, one arm always wrapped around the younger one possessively (oh, how Bofur had wished he could have sat like that with Bilbo!), Dwalin is staring at the dwarf with the flap-eared hat, his eyes squinted.

Bofur sighs and repeats his words, forcing them to be as loud as he manages, but still he can draw nothing more than a raw whisper from his throat. He feels the emptiness settle in the tips of his fingers when he realizes that he will never again be able to hear his own voice. Well, obviously it had not been good enough for Bilbo, as every part of him, so what does it matter? He pushes those dark thoughts back (he will have many a long, sleepless night to let himself be tortured) and tries to concentrate on the problem at hand. It seems that by now he has aroused the attention of Balin and Oin as well. Great.

“ _Say_ it again,” Dwalin commands and Thorin looks up, along with Bifur.

Bofur gnashes his teeth and clenches his fists, but knows he does not really have a choice. “The Book of Lost Tales,” he repeats, his voice failing him once again.

Oin turns his ear trumpet in his fingers, shakes his head. “This is not me being deaf,” he growls and it gets him the attention – at least partly – of Bombur, who is still munching away happily.

“What?” Thorin asks, obviously confused. Bofur shakes his head. His condition is obvious – how can he not understand?

Balin runs a wrinkled hand over his face, suddenly looking terribly old and tired, more than Bofur has ever seen him before. The gesture makes Bombur forget the buttered rolls on his plate, so now everyone present is staring at Bofur, his brother as confused as the King. Balin sighs heavily, and his eyes are dark. Just for a second the advisor allows himself to look at Thorin, then he turns back to Bofur. “Who is it?”

The dwarf shakes his head. They do not have to know that. (He ignores the fact that there is nothing he can keep secret from this company, not when they really want to find it out.)

“Who is what?” Thorin asks and now Oin is shaking his head, unbelievingly.

“Tell us,” the healer growls. “Otherwise we won’t be able to distract you properly.”

Bofur freezes. Distract him? But what- … he thinks about the emptiness that is making the tips of his fingers numb and that is spreading whenever the thoughts about Bilbo pain him in order to soothe the burning ache in his heart. He thinks about the lonely, black, sleepless nights that make everything worse, and he thinks about the fact that he wants to live, for his family. For this company. He gulps and looks at Oin. “How are ye plannin’ to distract me?”

Ori is frowning. “Why is he whisper-” Dwalin shakes his head vigorously, glaring. His own face is showing the worry that only Oin, Balin and Bifur are sharing so far. The latter one is shaking his head as well, disbelievingly.

Bofur remembers that his cousin had seen his One fade, when he had changed too much after the incident with the axe. Bifur had been suffering, desperate to help her but unable to give her what would have saved her. It must have been agonizing – knowing that you were what she needed, and knowing that you could not give it. It is what fighting does to the warriors and their families. There is nothing that has so many dwarves and elves fading as war. Battles change them, in one way or the other. Battles are what rip them apart. Bofur thinks about the Arkenstone, and Bilbo, and forces the tears back. He is not going to cry. Not now, not ever.

“Keep you occupied,” Oin finally answers, his eyes never leaving Bofur. “Keep you company all the time, especially through the nights. But you have to tell us who it is, otherwise we might talk about them and make everything worse instead of better.”

Bofur is still reluctant. He did not want to let them know about his misery in the first place, and even more so does he not want to tell them that Bilbo is the reason for it. He would never admit it, of course, but maybe he is afraid. Just a little. Afraid that they will laugh about him and tell him how stupid it had been of him to ever think that that relationship might work. That he should have known that he could never have been good enough for the hobbit. (Of course he knows that they would never say those things, even if they were actually thinking them, but there is nothing he can do against the demons). He forces himself to raise his head and looks at Balin, whose eyes are as knowing as they always seem to be. It appears that they have seen each other’s secrets. The old dwarf smiles sadly and nods. “Tell them,” he murmurs. “Let us try to hold you here. Even if it is egoistic.”

Egoistic it is indeed, trying to keep him in this world longer than necessary, but Bofur remembers his mother’s fading all too well, and how much he had wanted to do in the beginning, until it had gotten really bad. Thus he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath. “Bilbo,” he whispers, his eyes once again fixated at his plate. There is no way he is going to look at the others now, not after this confession. The demons are strong.

Bifur is still shaking his head. “ _But… that has been more than four months_ ,” he rasps in Khuzdul, his voice breaking.

Bofur is still unable to look at him, not wanting to see the look in the broken dwarf’s eyes.

Balin opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by Ori. “Will somebody finally tell us what in Durin’s name is going on here?” He sounds surprisingly annoyed and impatient, considering the usual demeanour of the shy scribe.

Dwalin’s face grows dark. “This is _not_ -” He is interrupted as well, but by his King.

“We don’t understand,” Thorin says, his voice soft. “Half of us. Tell us. Please.”

Dwalin shakes his head, not looking at him, and Bofur has to suppress a bitter (voiceless) huff. That they do not recognize the signs… he wishes he could have been like them. Not knowing. Never having seen somebody they loved wilt like a flower without water in the cruel midday sun. He wishes he could have been in Bombur’s place. Being the one protected, instead of protecting. Being the younger. Still, he would do it again – if he could. Save his brother the experience. He wishes he _could_ do it again. He wishes a lot these days.

Balin wrings his hands and his voice is sad, tired. “You should not have to ask,” he says, softly. “You know the signs. Everybody knows them.”

“No.” Bombur is shaking his head disbelievingly. “No. He can’t be… no. Bofur,” he turns towards his brother, he eyes pleading. “Tell me you’re not. Fading. Tell me you’re not.”

Bofur worries the hem of his tunica and closes his eyes.

He hears Bombur draw in a shaking breath, still whispering the same words. He wishes he could tell him otherwise. He wishes…

“What??” Ori’s voice is too high and shrill and has Bofur look up. “But… it… it’s _the speaking_ ! It’s the third step! What… what about the… _the dreaming_ and _the sleeping_?” He seems to be looking for an alternative explanation desperately.

This time the smile is honest, although it is a sad one. “I stopped dreamin’ the night Bilbo left,” Bofur whispers softly “and I haven’t slept for about two months.”

Bombur is still shaking his head. “But… why didn’t you…”

“He wanted to spare you the pain,” Dwalin grumbles and Bofur starts to wonder whom the warrior and his brother have seen fade away. Reluctantly he lets his eyes run over the rest of the company, or rather the part of it that is present. Those who were the first to realize have that sad look in their eyes, while the others are showing disbelieving faces. Ori is gasping for air and Bombur has not stopped shaking his head. Thorin is the last one Bofur looks at and he is surprised to see something he did not expect. The King appears to be shocked as well, but there is something else, something dark and regretting and guilty. What-

“So… we’ll make a schedule,” Oin interrupts his thoughts. “Someone will always be with you. And I have a few herbs that may make up for the damage done by your sleep loss. However, I must warn you, they taste horrible.”

Bofur actually snickers at that. It is a tiny, dry, voiceless snicker, but it is one nonetheless. “I can take that,” he whispers and Oin nods, satisfied.

“Good. Is there anyone who volunteers to go with Bofur until I have prepared the schedule?”

Bofur thinks about refusing – he is no dwarfling who needs supervision all the time – but scraps the idea a moment later. He knows that this is necessary, if he wants to survive a little longer than he could do without their help. And yes, he wants that, and the others want it as well, even if it will be hard, for all of them (he remembers how relieved he had been when his mother’s suffering had finally been over). The demons are telling him that everything will be easy once he is gone, once he can feel no longer… that it is the only way to escape the pain. However, there is this tiny, persistent thought that is stronger than the demons most of the time. _I want to see Bilbo again_ , he reminds himself. _Even if it’s just a glimpse_. And if he is really honest with himself he wants to talk to the hobbit. To ask _why_. To ask what he had done wrong, what he could have done better. He knows that will make everything worse, but he _needs_ to know. This is what he is (still) breathing for – what has kept _the speaking_ away until today, what has kept him alive for so long. And he assumes that the others are hoping that Bilbo will be coming back, and retaking his rejection. That this is why they will make him deal with the pain longer than necessary, why they will take up with keeping him alive, for he is sure that Oin knows how hard it is for those watching.

“I will,” Balin speaks up and Dwalin is coughing.

“Better be careful, Master Bofur, you’re going to have a hard time now,” the bald dwarf warns. “He can be really persistent when he wants something.”

Bofur and Balin both shoot a glance at Thorin, but the others are chuckling, even if Bombur and Bifur’s laughter may be rather strained.

“Can we… not tell the others, unless they find out themselves? Please?” Bofur asks and everyone else is objecting, trying to talk him out of it – “How are we supposed to keep them from saying anything wrong if they don’t know about it?” – but they finally give in. They stay at the table well into the night, joking and telling stories – but not singing – and Bofur knows that they are doing this for him, but he does not mention it and loses himself in the distraction, relieved. Not being alone… this makes everything so much easier. Finally, when all the others have gone to bed, Bofur follows Balin into the chief advisor’s rooms. They are situated between the royal chambers and the Grand Library, and although Bofur has seen them during the clearing work, they had been nothing compared to what they are now, furnished and decorated for the King’s best friend. Balin smiles at him and motions for the young one to make himself comfortable while he goes and removes the mirror, as well as two pictures and a few books from the huge shelves that are lining the walls, barely leaving space for the doors. He does so swiftly, not even having to think about which things to take away, and Bofur already opens his mouth to ask – who is it that he has seen fade? – when Balin takes a seat as well and stares him down.

“Now tell me. How did you find out?”


	3. But when we meet

### 3\. But when we meet

Bofur is confused. “How did I find out ‘bout what?” He flinches. Distracting him is going to be pretty hard, considering the fact that every time he wants to say something his voice – or rather the lack of it – reminds him about what has happened. His own body is making sure that he never forgets, driving the demons. It is a vicious circle.

Balin leans back, sighs. “When you realized that I knew” he does not have to mention what it is that he knew, but before Bofur has a chance to think about the fact that Bilbo and he obviously were not as discreet as he had thought the elderly dwarf continues “you looked at me in the same way I was looking at you. In that _I know something I should not know_ way I have trained half of my life to master.” He chuckles lowly, winks. “But I am going off on a tangent here. You obviously have found something out about me, and I could see you looking at Thorin whenever I did… it was not hard to figure out what it is that you know. So: How?”

Bofur clears his throat – without really making a noise – and raises an eyebrow. “Probably ‘cause I know what it is ye are feelin’. I know that… conflict ye’ve found yerself in only too well.”

“You do?”

The younger dwarf huffs. “I’d never have approached Bilbo.” So much about distraction. However, the memory does not have any time to get to him, make him feel worse, for Balin keeps the conversation going. Apparently he really knows what he is doing, considering the fact that he can make him talk about Bilbo without the emptiness having a field day.

Now it is Balin’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Then how-”

“He came to me. He asked me to… leave the camp… and then he just… kissed me.” _No, don’t let the memor-_

“It seems our burglar was even more courageous than we came to think.”

Bofur frowns. “… are ye just callin’ me a coward?”

“If you are a coward because of not daring to talk to Bilbo… then what does that make me?” He sighs. “I have known Thorin his entire life… and basically ever since he reached adulthood… I…” He turns to look away, which is more than unusual for the elderly advisor, as well as him talking so insecurely. Bofur gulps. Heavily. “I did… drop hints, when it all began. Lots of them. He never said or did anything. So… I drew my conclusion. And I figured that being friends with him – really good friends, as we are – and being close to him, even if not in the way I so desperately wish to be… would be better than fading away, and leaving him guilty and without the friend he appreciates so much.  
“Imagine,” he suddenly looks up, directly at Bofur, and his eyes have never been so old and so dark. So hopeless. “your best friend, a friend who has been there your entire life… tells you that you are their One, and you have to reject them, because you don’t- … well. And then you see them fade away, because of you, and you have to live with the knowledge that you have killed your best friend for the rest of your life, even if you did not _want_ to do it, even if there was nothing else you _could_ have done. I… I could not do this to him.” He looks away again.

Bofur gasps for air and is suddenly ridiculously relieved that Bilbo has left, unknowing what his rejection would mean to the dwarf, and not just told him that he no longer wanted to be with him and stayed to watch- … how in Durin’s name is he supposed to walk up to Bilbo and ask him for the reason, demand the answers he _needs_ , without letting him find out what it is that is going on with him??

“By now,” Balin suddenly continues, “I have found excuses to explain basically every kind of… odd behaviour linked to my pining you can imagine, and you can believe me that there have been many rather obvious _situations_. I used to think that Thorin knew despite never saying anything, after all those hints and contradictions I had managed to get tangled up in, in spite of my best efforts to keep it a secret, but after tonight’s revelations? I am beginning to doubt that he had any idea. And to think that our king did not recognize a fading when he saw it…”

“Because he never saw one before,” Bofur reminds him softly. “Neither did Ori or Bombur – fortunately.”

“Ori has grown up sheltered. I have seen Dori when he thinks nobody is watching him, and he does not have with his One what I am fortunate enough to have with Thorin,” the older one replies, assuming (correctly) that Bofur has found out about Dori as well. “He would have given up long ago, were it not for his youngest brother. In fact – Ori is all he is living for. Dori would have taught him the signs, but kept him away from the topic in order to be able to keep his own condition a secret as long as possible should it ever come to that.” Balin smiles sadly and proves once more that he knows most of the members of their company better than they know themselves. “Ori could not have known. And Bombur… I know that you yourself have protected your brother from having to witness a fading. But Thorin? He should have known. After Thrain fell to the madness he… our King’s own mother wilted in front of our eyes. She asked me to keep him away from her, to shield him, and I obliged, but he _did_ witness it, at least partly. And as King of our people – he is expected to recognize the signs. He should have known.”

“Maybe he just refused to believe it,” Bofur whispers, his voiceless words bitter. “Maybe he knew, but ignored the parallels and refused thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em. Ye know how guilty he felt, after the battle, when Nori was lyin’ so close to death, and Fili and Kili… when we thought they might never wake up again. He doesn’t want to lose any of us. After all, we’re family now.”

Balin is smiling, but the smile is sad and his eyes are gleaming strangely. “Probably,” he says, softly. “I just cannot help but wonder – will he see it when it is me who loses dreams and sleep and speech? When I stop eating?”

Bofur feels his eyebrows shoot upwards, and his stomach drop. “Will?”

The elderly dwarf shakes his head, immediately understanding what his younger friend is asking for, and the sad smile is still there. _Will_ he see it, not _would_ he see it. “He is crowned now, and as our King he will have to marry. And since he has not found his One – he will wed a respectable dwarven maid, take her as his wife and make her our queen. I will not survive this, it means as much as a rejection. But do not pity me, laddie – I have come to accept this as my fate long ago. Actually I have survived much longer than I ever expected.”

Bofur shakes his head, fervently, and suddenly rushes forward, flinging his arms around the older one’s neck. He cannot help but be glad, somehow, that he will not be here to see the other one suffer. Balin has retrieved his kind smile and hugs Bofur back. The once so cheerful dwarf grimaces. “I… what will the others do? I mean, like I said, we’re family! And first me, then ye and maybe Dori and, oh, I wish I could interfere with Fili and Kili!” Most of the dwarves never see anyone fading in their lives – why should this company be so unfortunate? Fate must hate them.

Balin has not stopped smiling. “Dori is not going to leave this world as long as Ori needs him in some way and although the lad has Dwalin now, my brother will be making sure that Ori is going to show Dori that he does need him still. And about the princes? Believe me, everyone does. Everyone knows but them, however, I am sure they will figure it out some day. Although everyone will suffer until then.” He chuckles softly. “Their pining has even me made almost break the rules. Repeatedly.”

Now Bofur is snickering as well, quietly. If even Balin is tempted to abandon the rules and traditions… The chief advisor’s eyes are sparkling and suddenly, without any warning – or reason, for that matter – what so ever he changes the topic, telling him about his day at court. It had obviously been rather exhausting, but which days are not when you are working with Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain? The corners of the younger dwarf’s mouth are twitching. If there is one thing that a journey like their adventure teaches one, then it is all the bad – or rather worst – sides of your companions. _But, well,_ Bofur thinks, _you are supposed to know all the weaknesses of the members of your family._ His smile is honest now, and amused. An impatient, annoyed Thorin is not a person you want to be dealing with. Unfortunately he is an impatient character and gets annoyed terribly easily. Bofur can imagine roughly what Balin has to deal with every day – and he is not convinced that he wants to know more closely. However, the advisor seems to be happy that he has found someone he can complain to, and does so freely. And, since it _is_ rather amusing Bofur sees no reason to stop him. This is more what he had been imagining when hearing the word “distraction”.

However, after he has heard about what seems to have been every time Thorin’s temper has gotten the better of the King – quite often it has to do with something an elf has done (or _not_ done) or said (or _not_ said) – the topic is exhausted. Still, Balin does not give him any chance to stop and think and when Bofur takes a look at the huge grandfather clock he realizes with no small amount of surprise that it is well past midnight and into those wee dark hours of the night, before the morning, which he fears the most. Because everyone is asleep then, and he is alone with himself and the memories and the emptiness… and the demons. Usually. Not today, though, for today Balin guides him through the night swiftly, and not once are the demons given a chance to do their dreadful work. He knows without any doubt, then, when the elderly dwarf manages to bridge that time without any effort and skills that can only come from experience, that he has been right. And when he is given the chance to change the topic (a rare opportunity, for Balin is holding the conversation in a grip of iron) he finally asks what he has begun to wonder during dinner.

“Whom have ye seen fade?”

Balin freezes and – just for a moment – says nothing, but quickly regains his composure. “I have told you about Thorin’s mother.”

Bofur shakes his head. “Ye said ye were to keep Thorin away from her, ye can’t ‘ve been there to distract her. But – if ye don’t want to tell me-”

“No, it is fine.” The soft smile is back. “It… happened a long time ago, even before I was assigned to make sure that Thorin’s schooling would be sufficient and appropriate for the Prince and Heir of Erebor.” He pauses and there is an unknown guilt in his eyes – and Bofur understands. He remembers what Balin had told him a few hours ago, why he never confessed his love to Thorin.

“Ye don’t have to keep goin’,” he whispers. “I see. They were yer best friend and ye had to tell ‘em no, ye couldn’t reciprocate their feelings.” He feels an unknown cold settle in his heart. What had Balin done to deserve a fate like this?? Seeing someone who was so close to him fade, as well as his Queen, and knowing that he would wilt away as well one day. Never before has Bofur heard about a dwarf with so much bad luck-

Balin nods, and seems to be far, _far_ away. “Yes,” he answers softly. “She was my best friend. Thorin had not been old enough then for me to see what he meant to me – or rather would mean one day – but I knew with certainty that she was not my One. I did not even realize what I was to her until the day she told me and asked whether I was to share her feelings, and I had to say no – because what could I have done? Lie to her? Pretend that I loved her back? Make everything worse and betray her like that? We have all heard the tale of Magrin, who feigned love for the beautiful Belis, because he could not stand the thought of losing her to the fading – and who cursed her with more agony than anyone else ever felt when finding his own One, and leaving her. No, doing that would have been worse than letting her wilt away, even if she was my best friend and I thought that I needed her. She was not surprised when I told her no, had seen it coming, but said she would rather ask me than wonder all her life, or see me with someone else. I spent every second I could with her until _the breathing_ took her away, for that was all I could do. Much water has run down the River Running since then, and still I am not able to forget about her empty eyes and what she looked like when she was finally gone, almost too thin and ghostly to believe that she had ever been real. I still feel guilty for not being able to give her what she needed…”

“And ye couldn’t have made Thorin live with the same knowledge,” Bofur completes.

Balin nods. “Yes.” He sighs and takes a quick look at the great grandfather clock, and again he seems tired. Exhausted. Bofur knows that this is not a physical weariness, but rather a mental one. Talking about all this has taken much of his strength; however, the elderly advisor still does not give his younger friend time to think. Instead he chooses to talk about their quest – a topic all of them like to discuss, and never seem to grow tired of – and soon they are deep in conversation again, going on about all the embarrassing mishaps they or their companions had managed to get themselves into and avoiding anything that has to do with the hobbit. Still, Bilbo somehow sneaks his way into the discussion and Bofur finds himself unable to suppress the question that had been nagging him since finding out that Balin knew about him and the gentle hobbit all the time. Maybe it is stupid of him to introduce the topic, however, he trusts Balin to keep the demons away. His old friend has proven that he is more than capable of handling this situation.

“How… when did ye know ‘bout Bilbo and me?”

Balin chuckles. “Laddie, I could tell from the beginning that you liked him. Actually it was hard not to see it, with you always trying to make him laugh – which went the wrong way more often than not – and giving him more to eat and everything. And when you did your best to protect him from those warg scouts, after we found the troll hoard, and when you tried to keep him away from the elves in Rivendell… then I knew that you had fallen for him, and hard. And I believe it was after we had left Beorn’s house, but before we reached Mirkwood that Bilbo took you away from the camp and kissed you, according to what you told me before?”

Bofur gulps heavily, but the demons are still kept in rein and he manages to think about said evening with fondness, the emptiness forgotten for the moment. “Yes,” he whispers “how did ye find out?”

Balin’s smile is a little too kind. “Do you have any idea what you looked like? Believe me, your huge grin was a dead giveaway and you did not stop smiling for days, although we were already well into that twice cursed forest. The two of you were very discreet, but not discreet enough for me. Still, I do not think that any of the others found out. But, may I ask – why did you keep it a secret?”

The younger one is squirming uncomfortable. “He asked me not to tell anybody. Maybe I should’ve known then.”

Balin shakes his head. “No. Privacy was very rare on that journey, he probably did not want to share you with the rest of us. Frankly, I have no idea why he left. I was very sure that his feelings for you and his intentions were very sincere. It especially surprised me after that night in Laketown…”

Bofur blushes heavily. How could the older one possibly know about that??

The elderly advisor snickers. “Did you look into the mirror before you joined us for breakfast? Your hair was rather… dishevelled. And both your eyes were shining. Honestly, it is a full grown mystery to me how none of the others saw it.”

For a few seconds Bofur lets the memory get to him. He remembers that night painfully clearly, the flush on Bilbo’s cheeks and all those lovely little sounds he had managed to draw from the hobbit and the sensation of sweaty skin against sweaty skin, of his calloused fingers running over a soft chest, finding all those spots that made his beloved squirm with pleasure. And most vividly does he remember all those sweet words he had whispered into Bilbo’s pointed ear, and which had been purred into his own ears as well. Obviously they had not meant as much to the hobbit as they had to him. He huffs, bitterly, and Balin is quick to find a new topic. Bofur is almost fascinated.

The next time the miner and toymaker takes a look at the grandfather clock it is time for breakfast.


	4. It seems I can't let go

### 4\. It seems I can't let go

Balin smiles. “Come on, the others are probably already waiting, and you know what they are like when they are hungry.”

Bofur huffs voicelessly. Oh yes, he does – but since he is not really any better (at any rate under normal circumstances) he is not in any position to comment on that, now is he? He rises and follows the older one as the royal chief advisor makes for the door of his rooms, but stops his friend before he steps outside. “Thank you,” he whispers and tries to show the other one how much this – sacrificing his sleep, spending the whole night with him – means to him.

Balin’s smile is kind. “Pure egoism,” he says, sincerely “but you are welcome none the less.” And his eyes are twinkling.

The corners of Bofur’s mouth are twitching. He almost cannot remember the last time that he had smiled honestly that often. (Of course he remembers all those smiles that only thinking about Bilbo had painted on his lips, but behaving like a lovesick young ladydwarf is not exactly something he is proud of. Or something he wants to think about, now that the demons are finally quiet, at least for the moment.) They walk down the few corridors to the King’s quarters and the comfortable room they are always eating in. Balin refuses to be hurried, despite knowing that they are late.

“I am an old dwarf,” he says, and his eyes are gleaming. “I have every right to take my time.” He even slows down a little, and pretends to use a walking cane.

As every other member of their company Bofur knows fully well that the elderly advisor is a force to be reckoned with, and that the years may have coloured his hair and beard white (and maybe made him grow a little wider), but have not taken his strength or spirit and that you do not want Balin, son of Fundin, to be your enemy. “Maybe ye should get yerself one of those canes,” he suggests, smirking. “Would be an interesting weapon.”

Balin seems to be really thinking about it and when they finally reach “their room” – as the company calls the small hall – he slips into his chair and, without apologizing for their delay, immediately begins discussing the idea with his brother. Dwalin already appears to be forging the walking stick in his mind, with quite a lot of ‘special features’ if Bofur understands the enthusiastic discussion correctly.

Shaking his head he sits down and finds himself under the worried gaze of his own brother. Bofur gives the younger one a reassuring smile and Bombur finally (and hesitantly) turns to his breakfast, which says a lot about his emotional state. _Well_ , Bofur thinks, _I don’t want to know what I’d behave like if I were to find out that he was fading_. He shudders and tries to push the thought back, think about something else instead. Breakfast, for example. Yes, that is a good idea. Breakfast is awesome. When he looks at his former empty plate he finds it laden with food.  
Balin’s eyes are still twinkling.

None of those who had been absent when half of the company had found out about Bofur’s condition seem to be confused by the rather unusual behaviour of the chief advisor and Bombur, or by Ori’s uncommon silence. And nobody is worried by Thorin’s brooding, for it is something all of them are more than used to. Unfortunately.

Bofur is startled by the noise of three jars being put onto the table in front of him, unnecessarily hard. “Dissolve the powder in a cup of water and drink it in the morning, brew a tea with the leaves every evening. In the third jar there are pills. Take one when you feel really exhausted, but try not to do so too often, and inform me when you run out,” Oin grumbles lowly.

Bofur nods, tries to ignore the suspicious squinting of the Lady Dis’ eyes and reaches for the jug with water. He pours himself a cup and opens one of the jars – the smallest – finding it to be the one containing the pills. He quickly slips them into his pocket and takes another one, which turns out to be filled with a finely ground greyish powder. He gives the healer a questioning look and Oin signs _two pinches_ in iglishmek. Bofur takes a deep breath and puts the indicated amount into his cup, stirring the liquid with a spoon. It takes a little until the powder is dissolved completely and when he is done he drowns the water as quickly as possible.

… _yuck_.

It tastes terrible – which is no surprise – and Bofur shudders, glad that he had drunk all of it in one go. Oh, he is looking forward to the tea he will have to imbibe in the evening – it can only get worse.

Oin snickers. “I told you.”

For a second Bofur is tempted to stick out his tongue, and the absurdity of the thought alone makes him freeze. He is feeling so much better than in the last days! He is sure that most of the easiness in his heart (because some of that heavy, suffocating weight seems to be gone and most of the chill in his bones has vanished as well) is due to the night spent with Balin, who is so talented at keeping the demons away, but the medicine also appears to be kicking in already. Some of the weariness that comes with _the sleeping_ is gone and (although overall he is still feeling miserable) he is much better. It is way easier to smile for the others now, and to keep his condition secret from all those who do not know already should be much less difficult as well.

Well, hiding it from everyone but the King’s sister, of course. She is still staring at him, eyes squinted, and her gaze occasionally flickers towards the two jars left on the table (he quickly puts them into one of the pockets in his coat), eyebrows knitted together. Finally she leans towards her brother and, despite the racket most of the company are making – as usual – Bofur does not fail to hear her whispered words. “Explain. _Now_.”

Thorin raises a brow. “Explain what?” His words are no louder than hers.

She rolls her eyes, annoyed. Her temper is nothing better than the King’s, and every dwarf living in the Lonely Mountain (or ever having been there) knows that. Unfortunately. “I know a fading when I see one,” she growls, quietly, and Bofur wants to laugh in her face. Because she has been seeing it for the past three months, since she had arrived in Erebor, and never recognized his condition as what it is. Oh, great. Now the bitterness is back. “And I know that medicine, especially the pills.”

Thorin is stiff like a board now, and the dark, guilty gleam in his eyes is back. “The hobbit,” is all he answers and Bofur does not miss the clenching of the King’s fists, or the way he opens his mouth, but no words leaving it. As if he had wanted to add more but chosen not to.

He is really interested in the reason for Thorin’s strange behaviour – anything to distract himself – when his thoughts are interrupted. “Bofur.” He looks up, not saying anything (there is no need to make the Lady Dis more suspicious than she is already) and Dwalin does not seem to be waiting for a verbal answer anyway. “That knife you asked me for is finished. Will you come with us when we’re done here, and pick it up?”

Bofur smiles (it is not exactly honest, but close enough) and nods, throwing a short glance at Oin. The healer’s smug expression confirms his assumption that this is part of the distraction-schedule. Obviously it is Dwalin and Ori’s turn to watch out for him. Shaking his head slightly – Ori, young shy Ori, taking care of him, Bofur – he finishes his (thanks to Balin) seemingly enormous serving and leans back, still watching the King and his sister from the corners of his eyes. The Lady Dis seems to be fuming – not exactly a rare sight – and Thorin is obviously brooding yet _again_. She is talking to him rapidly, but now too lowly for anyone to listen in, and ignoring her sons’ impatient questions. Bofur cannot help but be glad when Dwalin and Ori rise, waiting for him to follow their example, for he is not exactly keen on being questioned by her as well. And he would be lying if he were saying that he does not think her capable of cornering him in an unexpected moment and demanding the answers she wants. He can only hope that Thorin will tell her whatever it is that she wants to know.

Still shaking his head he catches up with his distractors (or whatever he is supposed to call whoever is on distraction-duty) and follows the pair to their shared rooms. He is a little nervous – there are quite a few things he can think of that he would prefer doing to watching a happy couple all day – but he need not have worried. Dwalin and Ori share nothing more than the occasional fleeting touch and apart from that behave more like friends than lovers. It becomes apparent rather quickly that Dwalin also knows what he is doing, and has instructed Ori as well. He is not as talented in leading the conversation (they spend the morning in the comfortable living room close to the library, talking about everything and nothing) as his brother, but talented enough. Bofur feels stronger than he had believed he would ever again, and enjoys the company.

Then there is a knock at the door and a young scribe is asking for Ori, who leaves and Bofur takes this chance to ask Dwalin the same question he had asked the elderly warrior’s brother the night before. “Who was it that ye saw fade?

Dwalin raises an eyebrow. “My brother didn’t tell you?”

“He mentioned his… a friend, and the Queen.”

“It was the Queen,” Dwalin answers, clearly uncomfortable. “While Balin was responsible for keeping Thorin away I was one of those who looked after her.” He says nothing more about the matter, and Bofur does not want to probe.

Faster than he had expected it is time for lunch and after yet another loud and messy meal Bombur drags him along to the kitchens, making him peel an enormous (and almost ridiculous, but they are _dwarves_ ) amount of potatoes. Cooking is not exactly something Bofur is good at – well, actually the seasoning is the problem – but obviously Bombur trusts in his ability to prepare the vegetables. “I figured ye’re good with a whittling knife, and ye can’t really do anything wrong here,” the younger one jokes, trying to act casually, but his eyes have not lost the haunted look.

Bofur actually thinks about proving his brother wrong (there _has_ to be something he can mess up, even with peeling potatoes!) but he does not want his work to be in vain. On the other hand – this has been a rather good distraction (he is _not_ thinking about the fact that Bilbo loves cooking) and doing it for some more hours would be a good idea… right? Fortunately Bombur throws all the potatoes into a huge pot and Bofur’s opportunity to get banned from the kitchens is gone.

The others stand true to their promise. Fili and Kili never find out why it is that Bofur is only whispering now, never raising his voice. Neither does Gimli; and Nori, Gloin, his wife and Bombur’s refuse to see the facts as well, remaining blissfully unaware. However, there is no way of hiding the truth from Dori and Dis has obviously figured it out as well. (And, oh, the highlight of Bofur’s day had definitely been when she had finally scolded her brother by every trick in the book during dinner, after finding out that he had ignored the truth that had been so clearly in front of him. Bofur chooses not to listen when the words “mother” and “gruesome” are falling, because this has lightened up his mood even more than the night spent in the company of Balin and he is not ready to let this moment be ruined by the bitter reason for Dis’ rage.)

\---

Bofur is pouting – or whatever he manages closest to it. This is going to be hard. It is already painful.

Thorin had chosen to send his nephews to Ered Luin in order to negotiate trading terms with the dwarves who had stayed there, even if they could return to Erebor. It is long overdue, and he would prefer to go himself, or to send Balin, but there is no way one of them can leave the Lonely Mountain at this point. Actually, none of the company but the princes and Bofur have enough time to do so, but that does not mean that Thorin wants to let them go. Or Oin, for that matter.

However, the Lady Dis has made very clear that if her sons want to go they are free to do so and Thorin does not dare to argue with his sister, not when the issues of their dispute are her children. Not after he had promised to protect them during their quest and both of them had been too close to death. Thus he cannot keep his nephews in his kingdom.

But he can keep Bofur. And although he does not seem to be entirely convinced that he should do so, he listens to Oin. The healer is hell-bent on keeping him under his supervision.

Bofur sighs, barely manages not to shake his head. The last three months had been… exhausting. The terrible (awful, dreadful, probably _elvish_ ) herbs had helped a lot, as well as the distraction-schedule, but a fading can only be suspended for so long, and while the symptoms can be fought there is no way to really treat it. The ‘euphoria’ he had felt those first few days after Oin had started to try and heal him had faded quickly and he has gone through hell since then, desperate not to show anyone. Balin is the only one who can really keep the demons in rein, and he cannot look after Bofur all the time.

He suppresses a shudder, freezing as he always is these days, and pushes the thought back. _The thought_. The wish to bury himself underneath layers of thick blankets – maybe they would be able to drive some of the chill away – and stay there until everything is over. It is growing stronger and stronger every day, fed by the emptiness, and it is only for his family that he has not done so yet. Really, his self-control is impressive (and the medicine is doing its job as well). Still, he is feeling less hungry every time he sits down for a meal, and he knows that _the eating_ is approaching fast. And although it is going to be excruciating he cannot help but be relieved that it is finally coming. There is no longer a place for him in this world, and he has already stayed way too long. Still, he does not want his family to witness it. Which is exactly why he is trying to persuade them to let him come with the princes. (Besides, this is his only chance to ask Bilbo for answers.)

Oin shakes his head yet _again_ and Bofur feels all the defiance leave him. He is not strong enough to fight, not any longer. And although he feels terrible for doing this in front of Bombur, who is present as well (along with Balin and Dwalin), he looks at Oin with his tired eyes, too exhausted to keep up the mask, and lets the words he has been holding back for months now come out: “What gives you the right to torture me like that?” His voice is not even a real whisper, and he hears his brother gasp for air, sees him reel back from the corners of his eyes.

Oin freezes. Then he nods, slowly. “I am sorry,” he says, clutching his ear trumpet until his knuckles are white. “You are right. This is more than egoistic.” He sighs. “Please. This is your life. Do whatever you want to do.”

Bombur is about to object, but Thorin shakes his head. He stares at Bofur and the guilt is more present than ever in his too-dark eyes, before he motions for the cook, Oin, Balin and Dwalin to leave. They do as they are told, either of them more reluctant to go than the other. The healer closes the door behind him, giving his King one last threatening look, and then the two of them are alone.

Thorin sighs heavily, his hand running over his face. He looks tired. Bofur is worried, he really is, but he is also too exhausted to say something. Instead he just waits for the royal to collect his thoughts.

“Bofur,” the older one finally says “are you sure you want to go?” And Bofur does not have to look at him to be aware that Thorin _knows_. But, of course, it is not too hard to find out. After all, the Shire is basically (almost) on the way from the Lonely Mountain to Ered Luin.

Bofur nods, and decides to take a seat. His feet have become too heavy.

Thorin shakes his head and watches him sit down with concern clearly showing on his face. “Fili and Kili do not know,” he argues. “They cannot distract you. And you are weak; you will not manage to walk far.”

“That’s what the ponies are there for,” Bofur mutters tiredly. He considers taking one of the pills, but decides to try going without it. Instead he focuses on the matter at hand, pushing everything else to the back of his mind, and for almost two hours they discuss the logistics of him accompanying the princes, until the King finally leans back in his chair – he had taken a seat shortly after Bofur had done so – and buries his face in his hands.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, so quietly that the younger one almost does not understand him.

“Wha- … ‘bout what?” Bofur is confused.

Thorin’s head flips upwards and his eyes are too-deep, too-guilty. “This is my fault.”

“What is?”

The King makes a vague gesture towards the miner, and Bofur understands. _This_. The fading. “Why would it be?”

“I…” Thorin shakes his head. “I… I did not know… and I thought… and… it is too late for that now. I just want you to know that I am sorry for what my… interaction with Bilbo after… the Arkenstone did to you. Because it is my fault that he left.”

Bofur frowns. How could it be Thorin’s fault that he is not good enough for Bilbo? It is his turn to shake his head. “‘tis too late for regretting,” he whispers. Because it is.

The King does not seem to really be convinced, but rather happy to leave the subject be. “I know that I do not deserve your forgiveness. All I can do is wish you a save journey.” He looks away. “I believe Bifur is on distraction-duty?”

Bofur nods, recognizing a dismissal when it is given so clearly, and leaves, trying not to think about the heavy guilt in Thorin’s eyes. It does not matter. Not any longer.


	5. Every time you leave the room

### 5\. Every time you leave the room

There are tears in Bombur’s eyes and once again Balin seems to be older than ever before. Dis is not able to look at her sons and Bifur’s grip around Bofur’s wrist is too hard. Oin gives him new jars, and a lot of instructions, and in the end knocks his forehead against the younger one’s before he returns into the mountain in order to look after his other patients. Dori, Ori and Dwalin follow his example and Thorin does not give him more than a nod, staying with his nephews. All those who do not know about Bofur’s condition have already left, while the others are staying. Trying to delay the departure.

Bofur takes his brother’s hand and presses a small wooden figure into his palm, closing his fingers around it. He does the same with Bifur and his cousin says some harsh words in Khuzdul, but his voice is too rough and too low. Bombur does not say anything.

Bofur would cry if he could, but his tears have ceased sometime in the last painful months. He will most likely never see his family again, but there is nothing he can do to change that.

Balin also knocks his forehead against the miner’s and, after a few kind words of farewell, leaves as well, along with the King. Dis looks at Bofur with a strict face, but her eyes are sad. “Look after my boys, will you?”

Bofur smiles wryly and nods.

Her smile is a little too watery and she coaxes Bifur and Bombur into coming with her when she returns to her tasks reluctantly, and Bofur feels their eyes in his back when he runs his pony to follow the two princes who are already on their way towards Laketown. Fili and Kili spur their mounts until they break into a canter and ride for Esgaroth, which they reach rather soon, and then for Mirkwood.

Bofur almost begins to regret leaving Erebor, for there is no way of distracting himself from his dark thoughts about Bilbo, but as soon as they reach the first trees the two princes slow down and begin to get up to nonsense – as always – and it becomes easier to fight the demons. Especially since managing to get the ponies to enter the woods is a challenge of its own, and demands all of his concentration. It takes the three dwarves almost half an hour to do so, and when they are finally following the narrow path the sun is already setting. However, that is not their biggest problem, for suddenly, without any warning, they are surrounded by elves.

The elves of Mirkwood and the dwarves of Erebor had come to an agreement after the Battle of Five Armies, but that only covers trading agreements, and an alliance, should there ever be the need to go to war. However, it does _not_ say how they are supposed to treat each other, and both sides are more than aware of that. Which means that meetings usually come with a lot of insults.

Fili squares his shoulders and darts his brother a cautionary glance, warning him to be quiet. “We are travelling west, and asking for safe passage through these woods.”

The elves scrutinize him with open suspicion, but then one of them looks at Bofur and his eyes grow wide. Within seconds all of them apparently have seen what Fili and Kili still have not realized, and the one who seems to be their captain nods. The miner sighs, relieved. He is too tired to think about anything, really, and just lets his pony follow the princes’ mounts, which are being led by the woodelves, one of them running ahead in order to inform Thranduil.

They reach the Elven King’s Halls well after midnight and are being ushered before him as soon as the horses have been taken over by others of the weed-eaters.

Thranduil is already waiting for them, and he opens his mouth as soon as he sees the state Bofur is in. The dwarf shakes his head, frantically, and the Elven King’s frown deepens. Yet he does not address the subject and instead asks the two princes inconvenient questions, clearly enjoying himself. Bofur gladly lets his thoughts be pulled away from Bilbo and the Shire, even if it is his friends who are being teased here. Besides, they definitely deserve it. (He has almost forgotten that sadistic part of him.)

In the end – Kili is already seething, and Fili’s patience is wearing _very_ thin – Thranduil finally promises to grant them safe passage and an escort along the Elf-path and finally has one of the guards show the princes the bed-chambers where they can spend the rest of the night, while he motions for Bofur to stay. Fili and Kili are about to protest, but the older dwarf smiles reassuringly (at least he hopes he does).

“Go to sleep, lads. I’ll be fine.” Liar.

The two leave, reluctantly – but too tired to argue – and Bofur digs in his pockets for two of the jars he had gotten from Oin. “May I have some hot water?”

Thranduil nods, eyebrows raised, and one of his elves leaves, returning with a steaming pot only a few moments later.

Bofur brews the tea – by now he is supposed to drink three cups every evening – and swallows one of the pills. He is too tired.

The Elven King watches him all the time, his expression unreadable. Finally he sighs. “You are only delaying the inevitable.”

“I know,” Bofur whispers, exhausted, and tries to smile. Really. He is pretty good at that by now. “But I want to see him.”

“And ask for the reason,” Thranduil concludes, understanding. “Where do you need to go?”

Bofur decides that it does not matter if the elf knows. “The Shire.” His eyes are so heavy. He wishes he could sleep.

Thranduil hides his surprise well. “The halfling it is, then.” He also hides his amusement. Bofur is thankful for it. “That is a long way. And you are well into _the sleeping_ , you will not last much longer. _The eating_ will come upon you soon, and then you will not be strong enough to travel on.”

Bofur shrugs. “I didn’t want me family to see,” he explains. “And I’ve got a pony.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows are continuously climbing upwards. “Elrond” he downright spits out the name “may have something to put off _the breathing_ , and I have a few potions that should minimize the effects of _the eating_. However, I doubt that it will be enough. Besides, you have to cross the Misty Mountains – you might have to fight, and you will not be strong enough to do so.” He shakes his head. “Are you sure that you want to do this to yourself?”

Bofur nods. “Yes,” he whispers. “I… I need to ask… why he lied to me.” He ignores the fact that he is telling this _elf_ something he has not let anyone else know, not even his closest family members. Because after all, it really does not matter any longer. (He is using that excuse worryingly often. The demons are doing their job well.)

Thranduil sighs. “Very well. I shall keep you company until morning, and I will advise your escort to do the same during the following nights, as well as not to talk about it with your little royal companions. Why do they not know?”

“I didn’t want to burden ‘em with it.”

“But do they not see it?”

“I guess they don’t want to. Thorin also wouldn’t ‘ve believed it, hadn’t he be there when our healer found out.” It is surprisingly easy to talk with the elf. Seriously. How low has he gone?

Thranduil snorts. “Really. Your _King_ ” his despite is clearly audible, but Bofur chooses to ignore it “does not recognize a fading?”

“He didn’t want to,” Bofur corrects him. “We’re all family now.”

The Elven King shakes his head, but changes the topic and guides the dwarf through the night swiftly, kinder than any of Mahal’s children has ever seen him act. The fading really is something that connects those two races. Bofur supposes that the king has seen quite a few of his own kin wilt away before his very eyes, after all he has been walking upon this earth many years longer than any of the dwarves.

Morning comes quickly and quietly and the princes are roused. In the meantime Thranduil calls for one of his healers and hands Bofur a small brown and a bigger (blue) bottle. “Drink as much of the potion in the blue one before _the eating_ sets in, and when it does try to take three drops of the liquid in the brown bottle every day,” he instructs. “They should not collide with the medicine your own healer has given to you.” Then he is gone and Bofur eyes the blue bottle suspiciously. This is probably going to taste even worse than Oin’s prescriptions. Sighing he drinks his two cups of water with the greyish powder dissolved in it and then takes a sip of the elven brewage, shuddering. Yep. Disgusting. Tempted to rinse his mouth, but instead taking another sip, he goes to find Fili and Kili. (Of course only after he has made sure that his hat is shading his face as well as possible.)

With the elves’ help they reach the western edge of Mirkwood fairly quickly and ride south, for Beorn’s house, hoping that he will agree to accompany them part of the way to the Misty Mountains, if only to attack some orcs or wargs. Bofur is eating less every day, but at least he has managed to drink all the liquid in the blue bottle. Thinking about the taste alone makes him want to gag.

He knows that Fili and Kili are worried, but they have already gotten used to a quiet and not-so-cheerful Bofur (everyone had, after _the speaking_ had come upon him) and do not address the matter. Instead they go on joking, like they always do, even if their jokes are a little strained, and Bofur is thankful for it.

When they arrive at Beorn’s hall the skin-changer is already waiting for them, having been informed about their arrival by one of his too-intelligent horses. He welcomes them warmly, offers them food (complaining when Bofur eats only very little of it) and tells them that Gandalf and Bilbo had come this way as well when they had returned to the Shire. Bofur tries not to flinch when he hears the hobbit’s name and decides to chance the subject by asking Beorn for his help. Fili gives him an angry look, but he could not care less. The skin-changer hesitates, but in the end agrees to accompany them to the bottom of the Misty Mountains.

“I will show you to the path you will have to take,” he says. “From there on you must continue alone.”

The dwarves thank him and after a good night’s sleep (for the two younger ones) leave the comfort of the warm house and make for the mountains. Unable to believe their luck Fili and Kili do not realize that Beorn, who is following them in his bear form, is the reason for the absence of any orcs. Bofur, who offers to keep watch every night yet again (the two princes seem to be thinking that he is sleeping when riding, somehow), hears the distant battle cries in the darkness, when the huge predator comes upon the foul creatures. Finally they have to depart Beorn as well, and begin climbing the mountains. The path is small and rough and they have to walk most of the time, leading their ponies along the treacherous trail.

It is the third night that they spend in the darkness pressed against the hard stone, not daring to make a fire and fearing that they might fall into the looming abyss any minute, that Bofur finds himself unable to eat anything. He tries to none the less, not wanting to worry the two princes, and ends up gagging and retching, his body rejecting the food. He also finds out that he is no longer able to take the pills Oin has given to him.

Great.

The potion in the brown bottle tastes even worse than the brewage in the blue one had, and the three drops every day require a lot of self-conquest.

He is growing weaker every day, and he knows that soon he will be more of a burden to Fili and Kili than anything else. Actually it is close to a miracle that they have not come upon any orcs or goblins so far – on the other hand, they are not being hunted this time, but normal travellers. So he tries to keep going, because he has come so far and he can almost see Rivendell already.

In his obviously miserable state it is fairly easy to talk the two worrying princes into a detour to the Shire, should he make it out of the Last Homely House alive. They are not exactly happy (their mother had instructed them to go for Ered Luin as directly as possible) but Bofur supposes that they would probably promise him anything.

And he thinks that it is the first step – and that he cannot complain, despite feeling terrible – when he stands before Lindir, exhausted, too pale and too thin, but _breathing_. Also it seems that elves in general are quicker to recognize a fading than dwarves, and the one welcoming them is running for his Lord before long. Bofur almost finds is amusing. Almost. Because if he is honest he just wants to lie down and never rise again.

Lindir returns, with Lord Elrond in tow, and despite Fili and Kili’s attempts to refuse the former manages to herd them away and towards the stables, taking the three exhausted ponies with them, while the latter basically carries Bofur into his house (palace) and towards his halls of healing. He makes the dwarf sit down on an empty bed (not that Bofur is trying to struggle) and with a swirl of his robe he is gone again. The fading miner thinks about taking his three drops of Thranduil’s potion, but decides against it. He is too exhausted to deal with that dreadful taste. Instead he lies down on the terribly comfortable bed, and closes his eyes. Yes, maybe he should stay here. He is so tired, how is he supposed to manage to ride on? And staying would save Fili and Kili from having to watch him die. The idea is very tempting, and he actually starts thinking it through (the demons are having a field day) when the elf rushes back into the room.

“Why are you here, and not with your family?”

Bofur sighs heavily, refuses to open his eyes. Does he have to go through this conversation with an elf _again_ ? “I wanted to see him,” he mutters, voicelessly, tiredly.

Elrond’s eyebrows are dancing across his forehead. He does not seem to have missed the past tense in the dwarf’s answer. “Where is he?”

“Shire.” He wishes he could sleep. And preferably never wake up again. His strength during the first three steps had been exceptionable, but now that _the eating_ is holding him in a grip of iron all his energy seems to be melting into thin air. And he thinks that he deserves giving up, after holding on for so long.

The elf obviously understands. “Do you still wish to see him? Because I may be able to help you, but your will is what counts.”

Bofur groans. “‘m too damaged,” he answers, and his words are slurred.

Elrond puts whatever he has brought with him away, and makes for the door. “If you think so, then there is nothing I can do.”

Bofur groans again. He cracks one of his eyes open and watched the elf leave, and he thinks about Bilbo and the sweet words of love purred into his ear, and he _needs to know_ why the hobbit had lied to him like that. Even if it will take a lot of self-conquest, and even more pain. “Wait!” It is a good thing that those blasted elves have such a sensible hearing.

Elrond returns, a thin smile playing around his lips. “Very well then.” It seems that this all he needs, for he takes a small vial and pours the liquid in it into Bofur’s mouth which has the dwarf gagging and choking, but the healer forces it down and it actually stays inside of his body. The elf sighs.

“This is going to give you some of your strength back, and it will make you sleep.” Bofur does not really dare to believe that, although he already feels a sudden heaviness he has almost forgotten settle in his body. “It will also minimize the damage already done by _the eating._ ” The dwarf coughs tiredly. He knows that he is too thin, but that is not really a surprise, now is it? “However, it can only be used once, or it will kill you. Sleep now, I shall make sure that you do not dehydrate and return with another medicine when the effect wears off. I will also ensure that your royal companions have everything they need.” His skilled fingers run over Bofur’s heavy eyelids and, relived, the dwarf gives in to the welcome heaviness in his limbs, sinking into blissful blackness.

\---

Waking is like being thrown into a tub with icy water. Only worse. The cold is back, and the pain is back, and the demons are back, and the emptiness is back, and _everything_ is back, and after those sweet hours of warm, indolent forgetting… so suddenly being forced to return to reality is devastating. He is gasping for air and it takes some time until he can breathe properly again (this has nothing to do with _the breathing_ , just with everything being too much) and he knows that even if he could take that medicine again, he would not. Coming back is not worth the sleep.

When he finally opens his eyes Elrond is sitting next to his bed, watching him, his expression unreadable.

“Ye… didn’t tell me…” Bofur gasps “that wakin’ up would be… like _that_.”

The elf shakes his head and his eyes are sad. “No, I did not, because if you had known you would not have taken that medicine and it was your only option, you were already giving up. Here.” He hands the dwarf a small wooden box. “These are some herbs that will help with your stomach. Just chew them, but do not swallow them! They will fight the rejection and you should be able to drink a light broth, but be careful. Now, how are you feeling?”

Bofur closes his eyes. Yes, how _is_ he feeling? Now that he has gotten used to the cruel reality once again, he can tell that he is much better than he had been before arriving in Rivendell. He is cold, but no longer frozen, some of his strength has returned, and – most important – his will is strong again. He is going to see Bilbo. He _will_ get to the Shire. “Better.”

Elrond nods. “Very good. You need to leave today, within the next two hours, and you will have to ride hard. It will not take long until you fall back into your previous state. Now, if you are ready – your companions are already awaiting you impatiently. They have been eager to depart for more than two days now.”

…more than two days? … “How long did I sleep?”

“Almost five days. Your body had to regain as much strength as possible.” Bofur chokes. The elf sighs. “Master dwarf,” he says and his eyes are old and serious “If you should find your heart mended – come for me as soon as possible. Your body is severely damaged, and if you do not seek the aid of a healer immediately you will not survive this.”

Bofur’s smile is crooked. “Don’t worry, that won’t happen,” he whispers and sits up, then stands. The emptiness is still there, but not as present as it had been a week ago. The bloody elf is still looking at him, as if he knows something that Bofur does not, but he could not care less. Because right now he has to find Fili and Kili and ride for the Shire, otherwise he will never get there. Thus he bows his head in thanks and marches for the door.

Elrond chuckles, catches up to him easily and guides him through the maze that is weaved by the delicate halls and corridors of Rivendell. Seriously. If this were inside a mountain he would love it.

Fili and Kili are indeed waiting impatiently and the second they see Bofur huge grins split their faces, although their concern is unmistakable. They are hiding it not exactly well, however, the older one ignores the obvious. Instead of addressing the matter he just smiles and cocks his head. “Let’s go?”

Five minutes later they are riding for the Ford and the East-West-Road and Bofur is quick to change the subject whenever the two princes are trying to ask about his stay in the elves’ halls of healing. There is no way he is going to think about this, not now that he is feeling so much better than before. This will not last long anyway, and he is going to enjoy it as long as he can. And speed his young companions on, for the longer the journey takes them, the weaker he is getting and never reaching the Shire is simply not acceptable. Not when he has come that far.

They are riding hard, getting the best from their ponies. The three of them only rest for the night when the last sunrays have already vanished beneath the horizon and move on when dawn comes, never lingering anywhere. Fili and Kili seem to have found out by now, or at least be having an idea – maybe one of the elves had given them a hint – but Bofur is still avoiding the matter. They cross over the Hoarwell and come across the Weathertop and by the time they reach Bree Bofur is in a terrible state again, although not yet just as bad as when he had looked upon Rivendell for the second time in his live. The brown bottle he had been given by Thranduil is empty, as well as Lord Elrond’s box.

Fili and Kili, who see him shiver and do not manage to warm him up even with a fire, decide not to stop in Bree but to move on, although dusk is already approaching, and they ride through the night and when morning comes they have left the Old Forest behind them and are crossing over the River Brandywine. Yet although they are travelling fast and hard, Bofur is wilting away before their very eyes. It seems as if the strength that Lord Elrond’s potion had given him back is now vanishing twice as fast, and everything else with it. Somehow, although being in a daze, he is aware that he must be terrible to look at, too thin, too pale and already halfway gone. Just like his mother. It is not exactly surprising that the hobbits are staring.

It is only seeing the soft rolling hills of the Shire Bofur had heard Bilbo talk about wistfully so often that gives him the strength to ride on, instead of sliding out of the saddle and into a heap on the floor, and never rising again. Fortunately it does not take them long to reach Hobbiton now, and soon Bofur is standing in front of that round green door once more, his feet too heavy and too tired to really carry him (the doorframe is decidedly helpful).

Fili is the one who rings the bell and supports him, while Kili is looking after the ponies and then Bilbo is standing there, looking exhausted (although way better than the dwarf), first surprise and then concern clearly written across his face.

“B-Bofur?”

And Bofur forgets all those careful words he had thought up in the last months, because this is _Bilbo_ standing before him – and maybe the black spots darting across his vision are not exactly making it easier – and he knows that he has to say something, anything, but the blackness is faster.


	6. I feel I'm fading like a flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of problems posting this chapter. Like _a lot_. I hope I didn't post any of the incomple drafts and you saw only this one? :S

### 6\. I feel I'm fading like a flower

Bofur would be lying if he claimed that he is not disappointed when he finds himself awake (and alive). He wishes _the breathing_ had come upon him in the darkness for that would have been much more merciful than having to go through it while being conscious, having to see the faces of the princes. To think about how afraid he had once been of dying now that he is waiting for it…

 

He feels like being underwater, hearing only distant, muffled sounds, and his body is so _heavy_. He tries to open his eyes, but the lids seam to weigh tons. _Just stay like this_ , the demons are luring _it can’t be for long now. Everything will be over soon, the pain will be gone, the exhaustio-_

 

What Bofur thinks is the cry of a child – what in Mahal’s name? – interrupts his thoughts. This time he manages to force his eyes open and the next thing he hears is his own name, shouted by a worryingly pale Kili.

 

“Bofur!”

 

“Bofur? Did he wake up?” Within seconds Fili has run into the room (a room which he does not know, but also does not really pay much mind, there are more important things now) and he does not look much better than his brother. “Bofur! Thank Mahal! We… we thought…”

 

Bofur blinks. Yes, he had thought so too. “B-Bilbo?” he stutters, and is surprised how hoarse a whisper can be.

 

“I’ll get him,” Fili hurries to answer and rushes out of the room.

 

Kili takes Bofur’s bony hand. “Please… I… I imagine that it must be painful and that you’re tired and everything, but please… don’t give up just yet! Listen… listen to Bilbo. He doesn’t know a thing about dwarven love or fading or… just try to hold on… long enough.” Then he is gone and the gentle hobbit is standing in front of the bed instead, worrying the hem of his shirt and clearly close to panicking. Bofur considers hoping for a second, but decides against it. He just needs to get his answer, and then everything will be over.

 

“Why…” he rasps, tries to clear his throat. Again. “Why did ye lie to me?” Maybe he should have approached the subject more slowly, but he does neither have the strength, nor the patience to do so. He tries to avert his gaze, yet his eyes refuse to leave the hobbit, now that he finally sees him again.

 

Bilbo shakes his head, confused. “… lie about what?”

 

Seriously? Do they really have to discuss this now? Maybe he should have stayed in Rivendell after all. “That night,” he explains, slowly. “Ye said ye loved me. Why did ye lie ‘bout that?” It hurts.

 

The hobbit is still shaking his head, now frantically. “But I didn’t lie,” he exclaims. “Otherwise I would’ve never… I wouldn’t have…” He takes a deep breath, tries to calm down. “We hobbits… we usually don’t lie with each other until we are married. I… I was thinking… that… maybe…” He is the one who looks away.

 

Bofur still does not dare to believe what he thinks Bilbo is saying. Because he does not want it to hurt more than necessary. More than it already does. “Then why did ye?” he manages to ask. “Lie with me?”

 

Bilbo sighs. “Oh, how can you ask that, Bofur?” and Bofur feels his heart drop. “Because I knew that I could never find anyone else. Even if we shouldn’t work out. Which never happens in the Shire, because you only settle with people you… love and then you have lots of children and I’ve never seen a hobbit couple wanting to leave each other. But… you’re not a hobbit, and I…”

 

Bofur wants to shake his head as well, to try and clear it, but it seems to be too exhausting. “So…” he begins, slowly, maybe there is hope? “ye are sayin’… that…”

 

Now it is Bilbo who takes one of his hands. “that I love you? Yes.”

 

“But… then why did ye leave?” He is confused. This is too much.

 

Bilbo frowns. “Well… we didn’t exactly spend much time with each other after Bard had slain Smaug, now did we?” Bofur vaguely remembers lots and lots of tasks, assigned to them by Thorin. “And then that disaster with the Arkenstone… and Thorin banished me… and you never came to see me, to talk to me, so I figured… I figured I would spare you the trouble of telling me, and just leave.”

 

“I didn’t know where ye were. After the battle, I mean. I asked the others, but nobody seemed to know and Thorin wouldn’t tell m-” He gasps for air. “ _Thorin_.”

 

Bilbo pales. “What… what about him?”

 

“It must‘ve been him, who… we should talk ‘bout that later.” He does not have the strength to think about what all that means. Because the only way his King’s actions can be interpreted… no, he does not want to imagine that Thorin has betrayed him like that. Keeping him from his One on purpose. “… Bilbo?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Could… could ye say it again?”

 

“… what?”

 

“That ye love me?”

 

Bilbo laughs softly and leans forward, pressing an affectionate kiss on Bofur’s forehead. “I love you.”

 

“Hmm… love ye too.” Suddenly the demons are gone, as well as the pain and the emptiness. And he is vaguely aware that he is beaming like some lovesick fool. Which he is, to be honest. Also, startled, he realizes just how _weak_ he is still feeling. “We should go for Rivendell.” His voice is hoarse and does not really sound like his own, but it is there. Somewhere in another room the princes are cheering.

 

Bilbo’s eyes are wide and worried. “Fili and Kili have already prepared the ponies. They said you should share yours with one of them and sleep during the journey, and they would wake you to make you drink some broth they told me to prepare. But… I don’t understand…”

 

“They didn’t explain it to ye?”

 

“No, not a word.”

 

Bofur sighs and his smile is wavering. “We can discuss it on the way.” He does _not_ want to die away before Bilbo’s very eyes, not now that he knows that his hobbit loves him. Not now that his heart is mended.

 

Bilbo nods and lets go of his hand (it almost hurts), makes for the door. However, before leaving he freezes and then turns back, clearly nervous. “There is something I… need to tell you. You see, same gender pairings are not exactly common here in the Shire, but they once were, and something that came from that time hasn’t changed… We, I mean male hobbits, can carry children. And I… I didn’t think… I thought, we being of two different races…” He takes a deep breath. “You have a son, Bofur.”

 

Bofur thinks that, under all these circumstances, he would have been forgiven, had he fainted. Unfortunately he does not. Actually he thinks his mouth may be hanging open and, somehow, he is aware that he must be looking like a complete and utter moron. But he could not care less. For he has always loved children – a rather crucial character trait for a toymaker – and when he had sat his heart upon Bilbo he had given up the dream of being a father. _This cannot be real_ , he decides. _This – all this – is too good to be true_. But then he hears the crying again, and Bilbo is out of the door within seconds, returning with a small bawling bundle. He smiles insecurely.

 

“Meet Frowin,” he murmurs and Bofur’s eyes widen. He is vaguely aware of Fili and Kili being there as well, trying to rush them, but he ignores them rather unceremonially. Instead he focuses on the tiny boy, who seems to have inherited a dwarf’s frame along with a hobbit’s feet and curls. There is not much else he can tell now, but he knows that his son is beautiful, and that his smile is back. Actually it may be even broader than before.

 

“He’s gorgeous,” he whispers – not exactly a typical dwarven reaction, but this is his _son_ , his and _Bilbo’s_ , and he is perfect. 

 

Bilbo’s eyes are gleaming now, while he tries to calm the tiny child down, and it is enough for Bofur to let Fili and Kili help him sit up and rise, slowly walking for the door, supported by the two princes. The hobbit watches them concernedly, somehow managing to feed Frowin and at the same time tying a baby sling around his torso and putting the child there, still holding him close. Bofur is fascinated. But, to be honest, Bilbo had always managed to intrigue him, and he has a feeling that his son will have wrapped him around his little finger in no time. Oh, he cannot wait for it!

 

Fili and Kili manage to get him onto his pony and the older one mounts behind him, the black-haired prince helping Bilbo into the saddle of Fili’s mount, next making sure the door is closed and their packs are attached properly. Then he mounts as well and they gallop off, ignoring the huge eyes and disapprovingly shaking heads of the Shirefolk they pass.

 

Bofur feels the tiredness settle heavy in his bones. Fili smiles wearily.

 

“Sleep. I’ll hold you, and wake you in a few hours, make you eat something.”

 

This offer is too tempting for Bofur to decline, especially after he has been craving sleep for so long now. The last thing he sees are Bilbo’s worried eyes, then he finally – _finally_ – falls asleep.

 

\---

 

No. Waking up is out of question, because he is _tired_ and this has not been long enough, he does not want to let it go and tries to cling to the darkness, however, whoever it is trying to rip him away from the soft forgetting by tickling him and shouting into his ear is persistent and in the end gets Bofur to open his eyes.

 

The sun is already setting and they seem to be somewhere on the East-West-Road. They have slowed down to a trot and it is a miracle that he had been able to sleep, but he has been awake for _months_.

 

Kili is riding on his left side and Bilbo on the right, holding the reins with only one hand, the other cradling the tiny child.

 

_Frowin_.

 

Bofur cannot help but smile. He would love to hold the boy – _his_ boy – but he is in no condition to do so.

 

Fili, whose arm is like iron around the older one’s chest, chuckles lowly. “So, I finally managed to wake you? Took me long enough. The tickling was my last hope.” Kili snickers, and Bilbo looks at them.

 

Bofur smiles weakly. “Did… did ye already explain everythin’ to Bilbo?”

 

Fili coughs. “We thought you might want to do that.” He takes the bottle his brother is handing him and gives it to Bofur. “Drink, as much as you can.”

 

“Slacker,” the miner grumbles, and sighs. He still cannot take his eyes off of the hobbit. _His_ hobbit. “It’s called fading,” he says. Quick and easy, is that not how they call it? “It happens to dwarves and elves when they are rejected by their One.” He opens the bottle and takes a sip. The broth tastes heavenly, but he knows that he will have to take it slowly. His stomach, although rumbling, is no longer used to this.

 

Bilbo’s eyes widen. “But I didn’t reject you!”

 

Kili raises an eyebrow. “You left, without saying goodbye.”

 

The hobbit worries his lower lip. “Oh. I’m… I’m sorry.” He looks terribly crestfallen. “What… did you mean by ‘their One’?”

 

Bofur shakes his head. “Didn’t ye tell him anything?” He sighs again. “We love but once, fiercely and with our whole being. When I set me heart upon ye, Bilbo, I also gave ye me soul.” The hobbit blushes and his eyes are wide. “If ye had died… I could’ve survived it. But we can’t take rejection. It’s what initiated the fading.”

 

Bilbo seems to be confused. “But what exactly is that ‘fading’?”

 

“There’s five steps. First you stop dreaming, then sleeping, speaking – you’re only able to whisper – and then you can’t eat any longer, and in the end you simply stop breathing,” Fili explains and Bilbo gasps for air, almost falling off his pony.

 

“You were _dying_? Because of me?”

 

Bofur forces a smile, and desperately tries to find words of comfort. “… because of Thorin,” is what he says in the end, ignoring the princes’ questioning glances. He sees the tears in Bilbo’s eyes and does not have the heart to tell him that the process has been stopped, not reversed. The effects of _the eating_ cannot be cured with a long sleep, as those of the other three steps, especially since they are not only malnutrition, but his body has started to destroy itself. It is why he has not stopped hurting, although it is no longer his heart that pains him.  
He is still dying.

 

He tries to change the subject in order to distract Bilbo. “When did ye find out that ye were… with child?”

 

It works. The hobbit blushes, grins sheepishly. “When we left Laketown?”

 

Bofur knows that his expression is growing thunderous. And he thinks that his heart stops, because although he knows, both of them are fine, he knows that _now_ , but he cannot suppress those dark, scary images of what could have happened. “And still ye _fought in that blasted battle??_ ”

 

Suddenly Frowin receives all of Bilbo’s attention, and the dwarf huffs. Seriously??

 

“I- I knew that you wouldn’t have let me fight, had I told you-”

 

“-damn right ye are!-”

 

“-but I had to help you! I… I’m not a warrior, but they couldn’t see me, because of the ring, and I had to do _something_ ! I already betrayed you all, I had to at least try and protect you!”

 

“What a load of rubbish! Ye didn’t betray us!” Bofur’s lids are growing heavy again, but he fights to keep them open. He knows that without Bilbo’s help, they would not have come out of that battle alive. At least Thorin would have died, beheaded by Azog, but if his unborn child would have had to pay for his King’s life… Bofur is scared of himself, but knows, had he to choose between Bilbo and Frowin, and Thorin – he would not hesitate to sacrifice the latter.

 

Kili and Fili share an angry look, also unable to believe the hobbit’s words. “Betrayed! You saved us, that’s what you did! It was uncle who betrayed you by not voiding the banishment, after his gold fever was over!”

 

Bilbo flinches and looks away.

 

Bofur forces the sleep back. “What?”

 

“What what?” The hobbit’s confusion is well feigned, but not well enough.

 

“What do ye know ‘bout Thorin’s reasons?”

 

The line of Bilbo’s mouth is bitter. “Of course he wouldn’t tell you.”

 

“Tell us what??” Fili and Kili are only too eager to find out why their uncle had banished the hobbit, driven by curiosity, while Bofur is filled with a dark need to know. Whether it was Thorin who took his hobbit away from him.

 

Bilbo looks away and remains silent.

 

The miner shakes his head, tired. “Tell me, Bilbo,” he murmurs, his voice pleading. “Please. I need to know.” He needs to know that his King has _not_ betrayed him. Because he does not know what he will do if he has.

 

Bilbo gulps heavily, gives the princes a wary look. “I’d prefer to discuss this with Bofur alone, but since this is not really an option at the moment… fine. I… it was after Bard had slain Smaug. Erebor was ours – or rather yours – and Thorin was wild with greed. It…

 

_… obviously affects the King greater than Bilbo had thought, for one evening he asks the hobbit to join him in the rooms he has claimed for himself. It is dark and cold and the elves and men are only waiting to come upon them and claim their gold, but the royal dwarf does not seem to care. Instead he makes Bilbo sit down and takes a richly adorned wooden casket, gives it to him. His eyes are gleaming._

 

_The hobbit hesitates, but then opens it and finds a small crown, billowed on velvet._

 

_Thorin beams, but the crazy gleam has not left his eyes. “I have been looking for this the last few days,” he says and stares at Bilbo expectantly. “It was mine, when I was younger. Now it shall be yours.”_

 

_The younger one shakes his head, confused. (And a little scared, if he is honest.) “Wha- … Why?”_

 

_Thorin grabs his upper arms. “Because you are going to rule at my side, my dear hobbit! I will wed you and you will be my loyal and loving consort and we will be happy and rule under the Mountain until one of us dies away with old age. And then we will meet again, after the other has followed, because Bilbo, we_ belong _together!”_

 

_Bilbo finds himself lost for words. What in- “… I can’t.”_

 

_“Why not?” Thorin demands to know, sounding nearly desperate._

 

_The hobbit looks away. He is almost sure that this is due to the dwarf’s gold-sickness, but he still does not want to hurt him, never wants to hurt anyone. “Because I am with Bofur.” He snaps the casket shut and rises._

 

_Thorin freezes, then gasps for air. “Bofur? But- how can you be with_ Bofur _if you could be with_ me _instead? I could offer you so much more – gold, jewels, a kingdom – and he is a mere miner and toymaker, what could he give to you? Besides, I am convinced that he is only keeping you as his bed bunny, but I love you, you are my_ One _, and I will give you everything you could ever wish for!”_

 

_He is coming closer all the time, step for step, and Bilbo is staggering backwards, his arms still trapped in the King’s large hands. He flinches, for a second – because what if Thorin is right? What if Bofur is only in for the shared bed? – but then remembers the soft words he had heard moaned into his ear that one night, whispered with so many emotions in them, and he does not doubt his Bofur. And maybe dwarvish love is brief and weak and ephemeral, maybe this will only be a short time of bliss, but he knows that he will love the dwarf with the flap-eared hat until forever, no matter whether he is being loved back, and that he would not sell another night with_ his _dwarf for three kingdoms. Thus his voice is not wavering the slightest when he answers. “Because I love him.”_

 

_Thorin shakes his head. “You will learn to love me! Just give me time. A day! I will give you everything, and I will show you how much I love you, and then you will realize that I am the One for you!” He takes another step forward, presses Bilbo against the wall, and his lips against the hobbit’s, and Bilbo feels something hard against his belly he never wanted to fee-_

 

_“No!”_

 

_“Why not?” The King is trailing kisses down the line of his neck now, his hands roaming over Bilbo’s chest, and the hobbit takes his chance to press his own arms against the strong dwarf and push as hard as he can, close to panicking._

 

_“Because I’m with child!”_

 

_Thorin freezes and Bilbo runs. Back to the others, back to Bofur, but…_

 

“… you weren’t with the rest of the company and I never really saw you in that short time until I took the Arkenstone, and was banished,” he finishes, tears in his eyes.

 

Bofur thinks that he may be weak, but were Thorin here at this moment – he would strangle him. “Stop!” he demands.

 

Fili gives him a wary look. “We need to get you to a healer as soon as possible,” he reminds the older one, and Bofur knows, he _knows_ that this is his life he may be gambling with, but he _cannot_ ride on, not like this, not after what he has just come to know.

 

“ _Stop!_ ”

 

Reluctantly Fili slows down and halts the pony, and helps Bofur slide out of the saddle, and Bofur’s arms are too heavy, but somehow he manages to wrap them around Bilbo, _his_ Bilbo, who has also demounted, and his grip is tightening as much as he manages to, in his condition (which is not very tight, but tight enough) and he buries his head in Bilbo’s hair and the hobbit is melting against him, shaking. Somehow he is aware that Kili is holding Frowin, cooing, and that Fili is looking after the ponies, but in the moment he cannot really bring himself to care (because he knows, his son is safe), for Bilbo is finally where he belongs to be. As is he. His feet may be shaking, and his breath is going too fast and too hard, but this – this is perfect.

 

The princes give them five minutes, before the older one gently tells them that they need to get going.

 

It takes all of Bofur’s left strength to let go of his hobbit and let Fili help him mount the pony. The second they have sped up to a canter he has fallen asleep again.

 

\---

 

The next time he is woken up it is around midday, judging by the sun’s position. They seem to have ridden through the night, if Bilbo’s heavy eyes are any indication, and at the moment they are going at a slower pace. When Fili realizes that he is no longer sleeping he immediately gives him the bottle with the broth, makes him drink as much as he feels comfortable with.

 

When he gives the bottle back he finds Bilbo watching him with worried eyes and he would love to try and kiss his worries away, but he doubts that he would be able to do that. Actually he is hanging in the blond prince’s arms like a wet sack, and does not feel up to doing more than turning his head and talking. Which is (almost) okay, because talking feels really good, even if his throat may be sore, after being silent for so long.

 

Bilbo blinks. “I… You said I was your… One,” he begins, slowly.

 

Bofur smiles and nods. “Aye. Me One and only,” he winks. Although he is being very serious.

 

Bilbo’s smile is soft, but confused. “And that you were… fading because I… rejected you.” He brushes his lips against Frowin’s forehead, the child sleeping soundly.

 

“Yes. Why?”

 

“I also rejected Thorin. Is he… okay?”

 

Kili huffs and Fili snorts. They both seem to be very angry at their uncle (which is not exactly a surprise). “He’s a bloody idiot, and I think mother is going to hit him – and if she doesn’t we will – and I hope that he will be feeling _very_ guilty, but yes, he is okay. He only thought that you were his One because he was mad with gold fever, but you aren’t, so it didn’t really affect him.”

 

Bilbo seems to be incredibly relieved and Bofur remembers Balin’s words. Having to reject someone you are close to, and knowing that you killed them – it must be torture.

 

“Bilbo,” Bofur asks, suddenly, because this is something he has not thought of yet. “Thorin kept us both occupied and away from each other ‘till ye took the Arkenstone, and then ye were banished and stayin’ with the men and elves, and then we were fightin’, but afterwards – why didn’t ye come lookin’ for me? Ask me to return to yer Shire with ye?” He knows, Bilbo has said that he loves him, but it still seems too good to be true. He needs all the assurance his hobbit can give him. “Because I was lookin’ for ye, and I couldn’t find ye, and nobody else knew, but – ye would have found me, had ye wanted to. Why didn’t ye come see me?” Actually talking is exhausting as well. Great.

 

Bilbo looks away. “I… I should have left immediately, but Thorin let me stay until I was well enough. I was hiding in one of the healing tents, a small on-”

 

Bofur interrupts him. “ _Healing_ tents?? What did ye need a healer for?” He is close to freaking out. _Very_ close.

 

The hobbit closes his eyes. “A stone hit me. On the back of my head. Knocked me right out. I only regained consciousness after the battle was long over. And… I thought you… couldn’t love me any longer. Not after I had taken the Arkenstone.”

 

“That blasted piece of rock means _nothing_ to me, and you are _everything_!” The dwarf with the flap-eared hat wants to scream and shout and kill whoever it was who hurt his Bilbo, and swear that he could never stop loving him, but another question hits him, and it seems to be more pressing. “Wait a second – Thorin knew that ye were with child and he still banished ye? And didn’t make sure that ye wouldn’t fight??” He is seething by now. He knows, the King had been in a state of madness, but that does not excuse endangering Bilbo’s, his own, and their unborn son’s life. Especially because Thorin had been mentally fine when he had not voided the banishment and caused Bofur’s fading.

 

Bilbo’s smile is a little watery, but honest, however, it wavers when he hears the dwarf’s angry question. “Obviously,” he says quietly.

 

Bofur wishes he could hug his hobbit, and hold him close, and never let him go, but the exhaustion is pulling at him and he does not have the strength to fight it. He hopes that he will make it to Rivendell, and that this strange (and actually quite nice) elf healer will be able to help him, because he is a father now – and maybe he could be a husband as well? – and his mind cannot give up. However, maybe his body will. He gulps and then forces himself to smile at Bilbo, trying to comfort him. He just hopes that a strong will and some mysterious potions will be enough. Because that is everything he has now.

 

Then the darkness has claimed him again.

 

\---

 

The crying of a child is what tears him from the warm contentment of sleep, and a worried voice, squeaking with panic. “What? But- … you _have_ to help him!” He immediately recognizes it as Bilbo’s.

 

It is Lord Elrond who answers. “And I never said I would not, just that maybe I will not be able to.”

 

“But – he said that I retook my rejection, which I never meant to make anyway!” Frowin is still crying, despite the hushing sounds the princes (?) are making, obviously trying to soothe him.

 

Bofur desperately wants to try and comfort his hobbit, to squeeze his fingers reassuringly, but he is too weak to even open his eyes. It seems he is being carried, and they have apparently reached Rivendell. Good.

 

“And you did. It means that his body is no longer destroying itself, but the damage is already done. And it may be too late for me to be able to do something.”

 

Bofur hopes. For his hobbit.


	7. Tell me why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame the fluffy parts of this chapter on watching _Sound of Music_ the day before I began writing it :p

### 7\. Tell me why?

This is painful. _Very_ painful.

 

Is being healed not supposed to make you feel better? He is being held down by a few quite strong weed-eaters, while Lord Elrond’s elven magic is washing through his body. He feels as if he is being torn apart and put together again – and maybe he is, who can tell? – and he distantly hears his own voice, raw and pleading, begging for the pain to stop. The only thing he is thankful for is that the healer had sent the princes away, together with Bilbo and Frowin. They should not see him like this, writhing and screaming with pain.

 

It seems to take ages until the agony stops, and the elf makes him drink a few disgusting potions, before he sends for Bilbo.

 

“He should be with you as much as possible,” he tells the exhausted dwarf. “That he has retaken the rejection means that your body is no longer destroying itself, but you were full of doubts for so long now – you will only allow yourself to heal properly if you really start to believe again that he loves you.”

 

Bofur gulps. “I’m well enough to recover fully?” His voice is hoarse after all the screaming.

 

Lord Elrond’s face is unreadable. “I could heal enough of the damage that you certainly _can_ survive, but I cannot tell whether you _will_. This is all I can do at this point, your body has to do the rest.”

 

The dwarf looks away. “How bad was it?” He needs to know, and he is most definitely not going to ask when Bilbo is present.

 

The healer’s eyes are serious. “You would not have survived another day without my help.” Then there are running feet, hurried, and the elf smiles. “I shall leave the two of you alone. Send for me if you should need me, I will make sure someone is around all the time.”

 

Bilbo runs into the elven halls of healing, breathing heavily and his feet hitting the floor uncharacteristically loudly. His eyes have found Bofur’s bed within seconds and then he is sitting next to him, both of the dwarf’s hands between his own fingers, and Bofur only vaguely hears the closing of the door as the elf leaves. However, he could not be less interested in what the weed-eater does, for there are tears in his hobbit’s eyes and Bilbo is shaking, trying to hold back the sobs. Bofur wraps his arms around him (he is tired after the treatment, but the exhaustion of the last months has finally left his body) and pulls him close until Bilbo is lying on the bed as well, pressed against the dwarf, his face buried in the chest of the older one, and clinging to his shirt (someone had peeled him out of his coat). The hobbit is sobbing hysterically and Bofur lets his fingers run through the dirty blond curls, trying to soothe him and enjoying holding him close again. _Finally._

 

It takes long until Bilbo has calmed down again, but that is okay. For Bilbo can cry as much as he needs to, as long as he does so in Bofur’s arms.

 

“Where’s Frowin?” he asks, eventually, when his hobbit’s tears have subsided and his breath is even again. He knows that this stupid huge grin is probably back, the second he thinks about his tiny son. His tiny, adorable, perfect little son.

 

“He’s with Fili and Kili and some elves,” Bilbo answers, smiling hesitantly when he sees Bofur’s expression. “I hope they’ll all be alive when I come back. Considering their races, they might try to kill each other over who gets to hold him. Seriously. But they were all cooing over Frowin when I left, so I doubt that they’ll hurt him in the process.” He rolls his eyes. “Never leave elves and dwarves alone in the same room.”

 

Bofur chuckles. “Ye should’ve seen Thranduil and me. After he was done buggin’ the princes we actually had a civilized conversation. All night long.”

 

Bilbo raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I find it hard to believe that,” he replies, joking, but his words are strained and he is tense, unable to hold the dwarf’s eyes.

 

Bofur feels his heart drop. _What-_ “What is it?”

 

The hobbit looks away, but suddenly he is crying again and his small fists are striking against Bofur’s chest. “Don’t ever do that again!” he sobs, looking at the older one with desperate eyes. “I just got you back and I was so happy, but then you were suddenly dying away before my very eyes and there was nothing I could do and it was obviously my fault and Elrond said he wasn’t sure whether he could save you and-”

 

Bofur presses his lips against his hobbit’s which effectively silences the younger one. Again he clings to the dwarf, desperate, and kisses him back, fervently, almost painfully. However, breathing through your nose is hard when you have just been crying and they have to break apart soon, Bofur rolling to his back and pulling Bilbo with him until the curly haired head is lying on his chest, the sweet face again buried in his shirt. “‘m sorry,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose into the unruly locks. “I didn’t want to scare ye. I should’ve come earlier, then it wouldn’t ‘ve been so bad. I just didn’t want to leave me family. I…” He sighs, and smiles, his arm around the hobbit’s torso tightening. “I love ye. And I won’t leave ye if I can.”

 

Bilbo flinches, raises his head. “… you could still die,” he understands, his words weak and tired. “I thought… Elrond…”

 

Bofur presses a kiss against his hobbit’s forehead. “The fading – it’s not just what sleep loss and malnutrition do to yer body. Once ye’ve reached _the eating_ your body starts to destroy itself. Because a dwarf can go pretty long without eating, although he’s not exactly in a nice state afterwards. So, to make it faster, me… organs destroyed themselves. The lung’s last, and that’s what initiates _the breathing_. Everything goes pretty fast then when ye’ve come to that point.”

 

Bilbo obviously is afraid to ask. “Is… did you… your lung…”

 

Bofur’s smile is sad. “Ye would’ve heard that,” he murmurs, relieved that it had never gotten that far. “When yer lungs begin to give up – I probably wouldn’t ‘ve stopped coughing, and gasping for air.”

 

The hobbit sighs, and his fingers are playing with a loose thread. “So it wasn’t _that_ bad?”

 

“‘t was pretty close,” Bofur admits slowly. He does not want Bilbo to know that, but he is not going to lie. “A few more hours and me lungs would’ve joined the party. I don’t know whether Elrond could’ve done anything then, but as it is, he could. And I’ll do me very best to stay with ye.”

 

“You better will!” Bilbo mutters, again shocked to find out how close it had really been. “Is there… can I do anything?”

 

The dwarf smiles softly. “Be with me,” he answers, pressing another kiss against his hobbit’s forehead. “And maybe bring Frowin?”

 

Bilbo starts up, wanting to run for his son, but Bofur does not let go of him.

 

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles. “I really want to see him, but I doubt that I’ll be able to let ye go anytime soon.”

 

Slowly, the hobbit smiles as well and looks the dwarf over, his eyes ghosting over the tired but happy face. Suddenly the pale green orbs are sparkling. “… smile?” he pleads, wriggling a little until he is lying comfortably again, head propped up on one arm, and watching him.

 

Bofur raises an eyebrow but complies, and then Bilbo is beaming and his lips are on the dwarf’s face, his dimples, eyes, nose, and then, _finally_ , his lips. He feels his heart rate quicken when his hobbit kisses him out of his mind, so deeply and lovingly that he stops thinking at all and just _feels_. Everything that had been wrong after the battle just falls back into place, because this – this is so _right_ , this is how it is supposed to be. Bofur loses himself so deeply in this kiss that he thinks he would not have found his way back without Bilbo’s help, but who cares?

 

The hobbit’s eyes are sparkling mischievously when he stares right into Bofur’s, their faces too close for thinking properly, and murmurs, so that the dwarf can feel the soft, swollen lips moving against the rough skin on his cheek: ”Is that helpful?” His voice is too low and too rough for Bofur to concentrate and all he manages to do is nod his head and mutter something along the lines of “very much so” before he captures the younger one’s lips again in a breath-taking kiss. Bilbo manages to climb atop him, and he is so _close_ , he is _everywhere_ , and this is torture, testing his self-control.

 

“One of the elves could come any time,” he pants, opening his eyes only to see Bilbo grin.

 

“So what? It’s not like we’re doing anything they shouldn’t see!”

 

Bofur whines.

 

“I don’t think that you are well enough for that, my dear dwarf. You probably should sleep.”

 

“Then stop keeping me awake.” Bofur wishes he could flip them around and show his hobbit – his, his, _his_ – that he is most definitely well enough to claim him, but unfortunately Bilbo is right. If he is not even strong enough to change their positions this is probably not a good idea at all.

 

Bilbo snickers. “I’m not keeping you from sleeping.” He grins innocently and buries his face in the crook of Bofur’s neck, sighing contently.

 

Bofur finds himself unable to complain because of that adorable little noise. Instead he decides to just enjoy the closeness. For a while he lets his thoughts ramble, until he remembers something Bilbo had said when he had woken up in the hobbit’s hole, and asked for the reason. “Bilbo?” he whispers, not wanting to wake his beloved, should he be asleep.

 

“Mhm?”

 

“Did I understand ye correctly – if I want to do this properly, I’ll have to marry ye before I can… take ye to me bed again?”

 

Bilbo raises his head, slowly. “… yes?”

 

Bofur whines once more. “But it’s probably going to take ages to organize everything! Do we really have to wait that long?”

 

For a few seconds the hobbit seems to be confused, but then his smile is beaming and his eyes are shining. “Are you… asking me to- …”

 

Bofur smiles sheepishly. “I don’t know how it’s done the hobbity way,” he admits and Bilbo smiles as well.

 

“Well, then why don’t you to it the dwarvish way?”

 

The older one blushes slightly. “… I already did. When… I lay with ye.”

 

“… oh.” Bilbo also blushes, but then smiles broadly. “So, by dwarven standards we are already…”

 

“bound,” Bofur helps him. “‘tis basically a marriage without a ceremony.”

 

“bound,” the hobbit repeats, beaming. “Well, then there’s no reason to wait. Apart from your poor health of course.” Bofur groans, but then kisses his beloved and moves him until Bilbo’s back is pressed against his chest, then wraps one of his arms around the younger one’s torso, wriggling the other one underneath his hobbit’s head like a pillow, and burring his nose in the wild curls.

 

“Sleep.”

 

\---

 

It is almost winter when they finally leave Rivendell. Elrond wants them to wait until spring, but Bofur is more than impatient and he wants to see his family again. His family, who probably think that he is dead. And who have to meet his son, who has already grown quite a bit (like babies do) and has eyes that can make his father do anything (after all they are Bilbo’s eyes). No, he cannot stay here for at least four more months, and neither do the princes. Bilbo seems to be fine with whatever Bofur wants, thus they have decided to hurry and try to make it over the mountains before the snow makes a passing impossible.

 

It had taken two weeks of drinking vicious potions and being with his small family (which had included a lot of conversations that had been too cheesy to ever mention them to anyone) before the elf had finally been sure that yes, Bofur would survive. Which had been thanks to quite a lot of luck. Or rather to the healer’s preparations. And Gandalf. As Lord Elrond had remarked – on the side, when looking at his patient once more – Bilbo had stayed in Rivendell on his journey home from the Lonely Mountain to the Shire to have help with birthing Frowin, and had not managed to keep the other father’s identity a secret from the healer. (Because Gandalf’s meddling is quite often planning ahead. And if the ‘general good’ is an excuse for gossiping? All the better.) The elf had known that Bilbo’s love for Bofur had not dwindled, and that the dwarf would most likely try to come back and be healed, should he make it to the Shire. That he would want to live. Thus Elrond had prepared whatever he could before the dwarves and the hobbit had returned to Rivendell, and only because of that had he been able to help him like he did. Bofur does not think about what could have happened, had the wizard not ‘intervened’ once again. Anyway, why should he? He is perfectly well now.

 

After knowing that Bofur would make it Fili and Kili had finally left for Ered Luin, doing what they had come for in the first place, and the others had stayed with the elves. Waiting for their return – which had been long in coming – had given the miner enough time to recover. Unfortunately there had been quite a few problems with orcs along the princes’ way and Bofur cannot help but feel guilty, because he should have gone with them. Protected the two boys, like their mother had told him to. However, he knows that he would have been of no help, at least not in the beginning. Still. Now the princes are sporting a few new scars, and maybe he could have prevented that. On the other hand he had gotten to spend a lot of time with Bilbo and Frowin, and imagining going anywhere without them? Impossible.

 

It has only been a few days since Fili and Kili have returned to Rivendell and Bofur is already urging for them to get back to Erebor, yet, he knows that they are as impatient as he is (although none of them are sure how to face Thorin). The dwarves had sent a raven with a message to the Lonely Mountain, but the animal had never come back and they still do not know whether their family had received the letter or not; and the Lord of Rivendell is reluctant to send another bird, maybe to its death.

 

It has been easy to talk the others into leaving quickly, despite Elrond’s advice to wait, and now they are _finally_ on their way. Home.

 

Bofur chuckles softly.

 

The always-present smile is back on his face (which very often earns him affectionate kisses, his dimples seem to make Bilbo do anything) and he is again the cheerful soul he is supposed to be. He can think about those painful months when he had been fading without any dark thoughts now, and everything is perfect (apart from the problem with Thorin). Because he has an adorable son. And an even more adorable husband. And they are finally going home.

 

He smiles affectionately at the bubbling sounds coming from his son’s mouth, who is bound to Bofur’s back this time and seems to be enjoying the ride. Fili and Bilbo are riding in front of him, Kili in the back, and they are already well into the mountains. It is cold, but Bofur has made sure that Frowin and his hobbit are warm and he is a dwarf, he is used to it. (Although, as he reminds himself happily, there is no need to be used to wandering and sleeping on the floor any longer, for he has a home now, a home he can _enjoy_.)

 

The hobbit turns around every few minutes, only to find his husband’s eyes glued to him (which usually goes along with an adorable blush covering his cheeks) and Bofur remembers that night, after Elrond had told the others that he would survive. He thinks that this memory alone will always manage to make him happy, somehow. Because there is no way of forgetting what it had felt like, Bilbo’s warm body pressed against his, being close, so _close_ , and knowing that this was the first night of many following ones, nights spent with his hobbit in his arms and no bigger problems than the time they would have to rise in the morning.

 

_Bilbo is still breathing heavily, and so is Bofur. The dwarf lets his fingers run through the younger one’s hair, who raises his head and smiles tiredly._

_“Bofur?”_

_“Mh?”_

_“What are we going to do now?”_

_And Bofur thinks about starting a tickle-attack, as punishment for ruining the moment, but manages to contain himself. “Now? Well, if ye aren’t too tired-”_

_The hobbit rolls his eyes. “Not now-now. In-the-next-weeks-now. I mean, we’ll be staying here until you’ve recovered completely and the boys are back from the Blue Mountains, but after that?” He sounds a little insecure._

_Bofur sighs. He is not sure whether he can ask of Bilbo to come back to Erebor with him. And although he will miss the other dwarves, he will go wherever the hobbit goes. The Shire is nice, right? And the pantry in Bag End is even nicer. “I’ll come with ye. Just say where.”_

_Bilbo smiles affectionately. “I miss the others,” he says hesitantly. “They’re like family to me. And I also have family in the Shire, but no one I’m as close with as I was with the company. And I… after I came back I cut myself off from most of the other hobbits. Having a bastard child, and one that’s half dwarf at that…” He looks away and Bofur tenses when he hears the words_ bastard child _. His Frowin is_ not _going to be called that! (_ Half-breed _will be bad enough.)_

_Bilbo sees the anger in his husband’s face and his smile returns. “Can we go to Erebor?” he asks, bluntly._

_Bofur chokes. And beams. “If… if ye really want to?”_

_“Of course I do. Like I said, the others are family. I just got Fili and Kili back, and I don’t think I could let them go again. And if we go to visit the Shire every once in a while… I want Frowin to at least know the land I’m from. But we can raise him in Erebor. If… if the others will accept him?”_

_“The company will,” Bofur reassures him. “I’m not so sure ‘bout the other dwarves, though.”_

_Bilbo sighs and his smile is sad. “We’ll see,” he decides. “That is… if Thorin lets me come back.”_

_“He will,” the older one growls. “And if he doesn’t – I know twelve dwarves who want ye to come home” the word draws a single tear from the hobbit’s eyes “and have some very convincing arguments.” He knows that Bilbo understands what ‘dwarven arguments’ are, after travelling with them for so long. “And, of course, there’s also Dis. She’ll just_ convince _him until he agrees, if need be.”_

_The younger one chuckles and raises an eyebrow. “His sister?”_

_“Oh yes. Never underestimate her. If there is one who can threaten Thorin into doing_ anything _, it’s her.”_

_Bilbo snickers and Bofur buries his face in the soft curls, humming contently and holding his hobbit close.  
They will be going home._

 

Travelling is easy with that memory in mind. And with Frowin babbling softly, warm underneath the endless layers of his father’s clothing. Bofur smiles fondly and gives Bilbo a broad grin, which earns him an affectionate kiss. (The dimples?)

 

Fili and Kili are snickering and waiting for them to continue. “Don’t fall off your pony again, Bilbo!”

 

The hobbit blushes and breaks away, and Bofur laughs with the two younger dwarves. 

 

Until he hears the howling.

 

\---

 

Bofur’s mattock is crashing into the head of the orc who dares to try and come close to the child still bound to his back. He knows, he probably looks dreadful right now, bloodlusty as he is, and he cannot help but be glad that his son is still so young. That Frowin will not remember his father like _that_.

 

However, there is no time to think about it, for a warg is trying to sneak upon Bilbo – who is currently standing his ground against another orc, with that letter opener of his glowing sickly blue – and he knows that the princes will have his back when he launches himself on the attacker. _No one_ touches his hobbit.

 

The screams of pain, coming from wounded orcs, mix with the cries of a young child.

 

\---

 

Thranduil is a bugger. Seriously. Still, Bofur cannot help but like him. Somehow. (Because he knows now that the arrogant elf can also be very nice and helpful. If he wants to. Which he usually does not. But anyway, he is obviously only insulting them because it makes the two princes fume, which is rather amusing. Even for him and Bilbo. So he lets the weed-eater have his fun.) None the less he grants them a safe passage through his lands once again, and it is not long after they have left the edge of Mirkwood that they reach Laketown.

 

The sun has already set, but Fili and Kili press on, not wanting to delay their departure any further. They are almost home, why wait for the morning? It would not be the first time they have ridden through the night. Still, Bofur would not mind delaying their arrival for another day.

 

For as much as he wants to see his family, he still has no idea how to face Thorin. And he does not even have to look at his hobbit to know that Bilbo feels the same way.

 

Yet he does not speak up and they ride on. He has kept the princes from their mother long enough; he will not keep them any longer. He looks at his husband, who is riding beside him, and smiles affectionately. “C’mon,” he murmurs, softly. “Let’s go home.”

 

Bilbo smiles back at him and nods, reaching out his hand and letting his fingers run over Frowin’s barely recognizable forehead. The child is hidden beneath Bofur’s coat again (because, let us be honest, the dwarf is the better equestrian), sleeping soundly, the flushed cheek resting against his father’s back. When the hobbit pulls his hand back Bofur takes it, squeezing the smaller fingers gently. “It’ll be fine,” he whispers. “Thorin won’t kick ye out.” He has to admit he is not as sure about that as he tries to appear, but he knows that at least Bifur, Bombur and the princes will be quick to help him fight for Bilbo’s right to stay.

 

The hobbit’s smile is a little lopsided, but warm, and they follow the road holding hands for the next few minutes. The princes exchange a few amused looks, but do not say anything on the matter. However, they get impatient soon enough and Bofur lets go of his husband, running his pony to a canter. Frowin is still sleeping.

 

It is well past midnight when they reach the huge statues flanking the big gate.

 

Then they enter the blaze of the guards’ torches and immediately there is an enormous uproar, those dwarves who are on nightshift trying to take care of their ponies and to inform the rest of the company – “Don’t wake anyone!” – and asking thousands of questions, whether they are alright, where they had been for so long, _are the princes okay??_

 

Bofur is ridiculously thankful when Dwalin steps into the huge and unfamiliarly empty hall – they have been ushered into the mountain – and his face is as dark as his voice is thunderous. “What in Durin’s name is going on here?”

 

The other dwarves fall silent and, after taking one single look at the warrior, return to their tasks without hesitation.

 

Dwalin gives the princes a crooked but relieved smile. “We were already worrying greatly. You were gone far longer than expected, and we sent ravens to you and the Blue Mountains, but none returned. Thorin was already close to ignoring Erebor’s politics and sending half of the company after you.”

 

_Thorin._

 

Fili’s countenance is stony. “We had to stay in Rivendell for longer than we wanted,” is all he says on the matter. “Is uncle already asleep?”

 

Dwalin shakes his head. “I doubt it, and your mother’ll probably still be awake as well. Come on, I’ll take you to them.”

 

Kili turns around and looks at Bofur. “Are you coming with us?”

 

It is only then that Dwalin sees the miner and the hobbit, and the surprise is clearly written across his face. “Bofur?”

 

The dwarf with the flap-eared hat smiles. “The one and only,” he jokes.

 

Dwalin actually smiles a real smile, broad and happy – one of those smiles usually only Ori ever gets to see. “We didn’t think we’d ever see you again,” he says honestly, and Bofur feels Bilbo flinch next to him. Again he takes the hobbit’s hand. With two big steps Dwalin is standing in front of the miner and he knocks his forehead against the younger dwarf’s, like he had done when he had left the Lonely Mountain for the Shire. “You should look after Bombur,” he warns. “He’s already in mourning. We were wondering why Fili and Kili didn’t tell us, but we all knew that you hadn’t had much time left.”

 

“We sent you a raven,” Fili chips in. “That he was going to be okay, and that Bilbo was with us. But we never got an answer.”

 

Dwalin knits his brows and his eyes are dark. “We’ll have to discuss that matter with Thorin. But he’ll be wanting to fuss over you first.” He then turns to Bilbo. “Good to see you again,” he says and nods, before he turns around and heads towards the royal quarters, his pace fast and edged.

 

The princes exchange a look before they trail him, Bilbo and Bofur following their example. Bofur has not let go of his hobbit’s hand.

 

Frowin is still sleeping.

 

Dwalin does not talk while leading them through the silent, empty galleries, however, Fili and Kili do not keep quiet. (They never do.) Chattering away happily they make night-time Erebor a little less eerie for Bilbo, who is almost crawling into Bofur’s side. And Bofur understands, he really does, because he remembers waiting in front of a hidden door, knowing that his love was alone with a dragon in a huge mountain he did not know, dark and confusing and scary, and how freaked out the hobbit really had been when he had come back, telling them about Smaug’s weakness. He also remembers the crazy gleam in Thorin’s eyes. Thus he wraps his free arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and holds his shivering husband close, brushing his lips against the smooth skin of the younger one’s cheek.

 

They reach the King’s quarters within a few minutes and Dwalin barely takes the time to knock before he enters, pulling the princes along. Risking a glance Bofur sees Thorin and his sister rising from comfortable armchairs in front of the fireplace, surprise clearly visible on their faces.

 

Then Dis is running toward her sons, flinging her arms first around the younger one’s neck and then around Fili’s, her eyes roaming their bodies, looking for injuries. And with the talented eye of a mother who should not see something she immediately finds some of the new scars and her eyes grow dark and dangerous.

 

Bofur pulls Bilbo into the room and closes the door behind them. Maybe now would be a good time to intervene?

 

However, before he can say or do anything Thorin’s eyes have fallen upon the unusual couple and something very rare happens: The King under the Mountain is left speechless. Then a genuine smile lights up his features and he hurries towards them, one arm falling heavily onto Bofur’s shoulder.

 

“You are alive,” he says and his voice is raw with emotions. “I thought… I am really sorry. We… I hope that you will hear me, so that I can tell you my reasons. They are not an excuse for what I have done, but maybe you will understand me better and accept my apology. I know that I do not deserve your forgiveness.” He bows his head, addresses Bilbo directly. “I have already voided the banishment, shortly after Bofur left for you. I should have done so much earlier, I know that, and I regret making you suffer. Both of you. You will always be welcome in Erebor, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, as you deserve. After all you are the one who has given my kingdom back to me, and my family – a family you are part of.” Then he looks around, squints his eyes. “Where is-”

 

“Frowin,” Bilbo helps him, obviously understanding what the king is looking for, his words crisp and cold.

 

“Frowin,” Thorin repeats and actually smiles again. For a second his eyes stray towards where his nephews are standing with their mother, then he turns around. “You know that by dwarven standards the two of you are bound?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Your son will always have a home here,” he promises, sincerely. “However, I cannot guarantee that he will not be confronted with the prejudices of others living in this mountain.”

 

Bilbo nods. “We know,” he says, and then turns to look at Bofur. “Maybe you should go, wake Bombur and Bifur? I’m sure they want to see you.”

 

Bofur smiles fondly. “Ye’re right,” he murmurs, and pecks the younger one on the lips. “I’ll go, bring ‘em here.”

 

Thorin bows his head once more. “A good idea,” he agrees. “I will send Fili and Kili for the rest of the company, they will be most excited to see you. Unfortunately Dwalin will have to return to the guardhouse, he is on duty tonight and responsible for all the other guards.” He then turns around and walks towards his nephews, leaving the two alone.

 

Bofur smiles and pulls Bilbo into an embrace, burying his nose in the soft curls. He knows that the younger one blushes in that adorable shade.

 

“Bofur!”

 

“Aye?”

 

“What are you-”

 

“Huggin’ ye,” Bofur interrupts him, grinning fondly.

 

“But why-”

 

“Because I never get enough of that. But if ye don’t want to hug me back – I’ll go, find me brother and cousin.” With that he lets go of his hobbit and, after a last grin over his shoulder, makes towards the rooms of Bombur.

 

Frowin is still sleeping.

 

He is shocked when he sees his brother.

 

Bombur has lost quite a lot of weight, and his eyes are red and puffy. When he sees the older one he turns around, shakes his head and murmurs something about dreaming. Bofur takes his battlespoon, which is leaning against the wall, and lets it collide with the back of Bombur’s head. Softly, of course. (The dwarven softly.) The red-haired dwarf whips around and throws his arms around his brother’s neck, sobbing heavily and nearly crushing the child on his back. Bofur hugs him back and lets him cry, holding his own tears back. The last time he had been with Bombur he had thought that he would never see him again.

 

“We sent a raven,” he whispers. “‘t never came back and we didn’t get yours. Dwalin told us ‘bout ‘em.”

 

Bombur snuffles and draws back, smiling hesitantly. “It’s good to see you,” he says, his hands still on Bofur’s shoulders.

 

Bofur returns the smile, all brilliant and dimples, and considers telling him about Frowin, but no – he will wait until he is back with his husband, and the rest of the company is there.

 

“Bilbo,” Bombur suddenly asks, as if he had been reading his brother’s mind, “what ‘bout him?”

 

“He’s here with me,” Bofur beams and Bombur’s smile is kind. Understanding. He turns his head and looks at the door to his bedroom, where he knows his wife is waiting for him.

 

“Give me a second,” he murmurs, “I’ll go get dressed and tell her where I’ll be, then I’ll come with you, get Bifur.” He all but runs into his bedroom and Bofur hears a few whispered words, then the younger one is back, no longer wearing his night clothes. “Let’s go.”

 

Frowin is still sleeping.

 

Bifur’s reaction is a little more painful than Bombur’s. He punches Bofur into the jaw, but then his forehead crashes against his cousin’s and he is muttering soft words in Khuzdul, telling the younger one how happy he is to see him. Bofur carefully touches his jaw and smiles crookedly. It is going to bruise, but he can handle that. His hobbit is the one who cannot.

 

“Ye’ll have to explain that to Bilbo,” is all he says on the matter, his eyes sparkling. Because he knows that his cousin did not mean to hurt him. Just to make sure that he is real, for Bifur has experience with hallucinations. Thinking about that it is easy to forget the pain in his jaw.

 

They return to Thorin’s rooms then, Bombur’s hand never leaving Bofur’s shoulder, and so far neither of them seems to have seen the small boy strapped to his back. Which is a small miracle. But they can be forgiven that, really, for they have just gotten the family member they had thought lost back, and there is nothing else on their mind.

 

The three of them find Thorin and Ori waiting for them, Dis having gone with the boys, and Bilbo sitting in a corner, as far away from Thorin as possible.

 

Bofur smiles at him and motions for his husband to join them. The hobbit complies and seconds later finds himself in a bone crushing hug, when Bombur wraps his arms around him.

 

“‘m glad you’re here,” Bofur hears his brother whisper and he sees Bilbo’s relieved smile. Bifur’s slap on the hobbit’s shoulder is almost as bone crushing as the hug, and most definitely as well meant.

 

Then Ori has managed to thrust everyone else aside and flings his arms around Bofur’s neck, also barely missing Frowin, trying to hold back the tears. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

 

Bofur smiles apologetically. “Well, here I am.” He pats the younger dwarf’s back slightly awkwardly – it is a good thing that Dwalin is on duty – and gives the scribe time to calm down.

 

Ori is slowly pulling back and looking at him with big, round eyes, when the rest of the company burst into the room, all of them talking and hugging Bilbo and making a racket, as always, and it is _loud_.

 

And then Frowin is no longer sleeping.

 

When the cry of the child breaks through the air all of the others fall completely silent. Bofur turns his back into Bilbo’s direction and the hobbit skilfully fishes their son out of the sling, cradling him and trying to calm the boy down, whose face has taken a remarkable shade of red by now.

 

Everyone turns to look at the miner.

 

Bofur raises an eyebrow.

 

“Whose child is it?” Gloin asks, squinting his eyes.

 

Bofur knots his brows. “Mine.” His voice is dark. Whose else??

 

“But… - _how_? Nori chips in.

 

The dwarf with the flap-eared hat huffs. “I surely don’t have to explain that to ye?”

 

Nori rolls his eyes. “Of course not! But the age can’t fit, and he’s a hobbit – and a male one at that!”

 

“Hobbits’ pregnancies are shorter than dwarves’,” Fili, who had been asking exactly the same question a few weeks ago, explains. “And, obviously, males can carry children. How a dwarf and a hobbit can have a child together? Not even the weed-eaters have an idea.”

 

Bofur darts the blond prince a thankful glance and sighs. This is going to be a looooong night. He can tell that everyone has a whole lot of questions, and they all want to welcome him back. From the corner of his eyes he sees Bilbo retreat into his quiet corner, still cradling Frowin and humming a lullaby. The affectionate smile is not long in coming and he decides that he can face the probably very loud and very chaotic discussions that are going to come, if it gives his husband and son some rest. And anyway, this is family here.

 

\---

 

Thorin is leaning against the railing, forearms resting on the strong stone, and staring into the night. “I did not think that he was your One,” he says, honestly. “I figured that you had wanted to share some closeness on the road, and that Bilbo had been seeking it as well, being the outsider. When he told me that he was with child… well, I could not think clearly back then, and neither when I nearly killed him. But I could later on, during the battle, and afterwards. I knew that it had been him who had saved me. I knew that I should have voided the banishment. However, I…” He closes his eyes.  
“I have seen a half-breed child before.”

 

Bofur gasps for air.

 

“He was half dwarf, half human, and my brother… he was the father. When the girl came, saying that the babe was Frerin’s son… grandfather was raging. Everyone who knew had to swear to their life that they would keep it a secret; and the child was… grandfather told Frerin to ‘get rid of it’.” His voice is dark and bitter. “He said that my brother had brought a terrible shame upon the line of Durin, and that no one could ever find out. Because we dwarves are a proud people, and we do not mix with other races.” He huffs.

 

Bilbo clears his throat.

 

“Grandfather also made sure that the girl would never come close to any dwarves ever again. She was not Frerin’s One, thus he could deal with her as he wished without hurting him. I have no idea what happened to her, and I doubt that I want to know. After that was done just… forgot the matter. Never talked about it ever again. However, from then on I listened closer to the rumours among the cityfolk, they always know more. I… I heard about at least four families who had been banished from Erebor for lying with someone of another race. Grandfather never talked about the topic, and neither did anyone else, but if you know where to look…” He finally turns around, looks at Bilbo and Bofur who are standing behind him, listening.

 

“I wanted to spare you the shame. Because I do not care who you love as long as you are happy, but while I am the King… I cannot tell my subjects what to think. I figured that Bilbo would have less problems in the Shire, because hobbits are so much less radical than dwarves in many things, and that not voiding the banishment would make it easier for everyone. It was hard for me, sending someone who is family away and knowing that they thought I hated them, but I really believed it to be best. I am sorry.” Again he closes his eyes, turns his face away.

 

Bilbo takes a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell Bofur, when you realized that I was his One?”

 

Thorin laughs, bitterly. “We only found out that day _the speaking_ had come upon him. Not many dwarves last more than a few weeks after that. I did not think that he would ever reach the Shire alive, and only telling him what you had told me would not have been enough. He had to hear it from you. I… we are all family now. And I could not send him away, knowing that he would probably never come back, when he could also spend the time with us. With Bombur and Bifur. It was a little egoistic, but every time I looked at Bombur… I knew that I could not take those last days he could have with his brother. I know that watching a fading is terrible, even if I only saw glimpses of my mother’s pain. I knew what watching Bofur wilt away would mean to us – but I could not let him die somewhere on the road, alone, instead of with his family.” His smile is sad.

 

“I have caused both of you a lot of pain. However, I never wanted to do that.” Thorin shakes his head. “I already said that I do not ask for your forgiveness. I just hope that you will accept my apology, now that I told you my reasons.”

 

Bilbo’s smile is a little watery. “Apology accepted,” he murmurs.

 

Bofur cannot help but smile as well – his lovely, sweet, too-good-to-be-true Bilbo – and nods. “And we’ve already forgiven ye,” he says, knowing that his hobbit feels the same way. Thorin had only ever wanted to help them, he did not deserve any ill feelings for it. Not now, that they are back together.

 

Bilbo nods eagerly and his smile grows when he sees the surprise in Thorin’s eyes. “Come on,” he smiles. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go and rescue Frowin.”

 

Bofur chuckles. Indeed, maybe they should save their son from the princes’ love. They adore him, maybe even a little too much. “I’ll stay here just a little longer,” he says, smiling at his hobbit. “I’ll come find ye in a few.”

 

Bilbo nods, grabs the King’s forearm and simply pulls him into the mountain.

 

The miner watches them leave before he turns around and stares into the night himself. The bright roofs of Dale are shining in the light of the almost full moon and in the distance the stars are being reflected in the dark water of the Long Lake. He thinks about bare feet on the floor of his rooms and small hands busy with pots and bowls, and the cry of a young child echoing in the company’s room. And he also thinks about the tiredness in Balin’s eyes, and the emptiness in Dori’s. Life is not easy, he knows that, but with Bilbo by his side he can take anything. Even if it means hiding mirrors and a few selected books or paintings and staying awake all night, in order to help a friend. Even if it means losing some members of the family he has found on the road forever. Even if it means that it hurts.

 

Because that’s life.

 

And as long as it’s life with Bilbo it’s all he could ever ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, and for the awesome reviews!! :D


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